Vision
by sss979
Summary: What was once a coherent team in Vietnam is now fragmented after being separated for sixteen months, following the escape from Ft. Bragg. As Hannibal tries to bring them back together, he must overcome obstacles from within as well as outside. Warnings: Implied violence. Mild angst.
1. Prologue

**PROLOGUE**

**20 March, 1954**

"Good evening, Captain."

John Smith glanced over his shoulder, and his eyes swept over the slender, well-proportioned frame of a woman only a few years older than himself. He recognized her immediately; she was the general's young, pretty wife. Though they'd never been formally introduced, she was hard to miss.

"Good evening," he answered politely. He turned to face her, a cigar in one hand and a glass of scotch in the other as he leaned on the balcony railing. "Shouldn't you be inside, entertaining your guests?" he questioned, with a smile on his lips. He wasn't so bold as to ask her outright why she'd left the party to seek him out.

She laughed, a light-hearted sound, and stepped further out, into the cool night air. "They're not my guests," she corrected with a flip of her long hair over her shoulder. "Most of those people, I wouldn't even recognize in a crowd."

"You and me both." He took a sip of the scotch, and watched her as she approached, leaning on the railing as she looked out over her estate. She seemed comfortable, and he didn't stand on formalities as he leaned back and raised the cigar to his mouth. "In any case, I suppose the champagne is doing a fine job of entertaining them without our help."

She smirked as she glanced sideways at him. "I noticed you don't mingle very well," she said, eyeing him.

He shrugged, and turned to face the railing again, and the wide-open backyard. "I suppose I don't have much in common with most of those men."

"You're a captain, aren't you?"

"I am."

"Then you're not outranked by _every_ man in there."

Smith laughed. "Not quite what I meant."

"What did you mean, then?" she asked, her tone light and playful.

"I was in elementary school when the war ended," he reminded her. "Most of those men achieved their ranks before I even graduated."

"Graduated," she repeated, almost wistfully. "West Point, right?"

"That's right. 1950."

"You've made your rank very quickly."

"So I've been told." He glanced at her, tipping his head as he watched her carefully. She _was _flirting. Her body language screamed it. The way she played with her hair, the sensuous pose, the raking gaze that moved up and down his torso, and lingered a little too long in certain areas. He smirked a little, not the least bit self-conscious.

"So what is it about you that the general likes so very much?" she asked, touching her lips lightly with one finger. "To say you're not the only captain here is not to say that there's an abundance of them. What did you do to attract his attention?"

"What did you?" he smiled back.

She laughed. "Attractive _and _witty." Her eyes darkened as she took the tip of her finger between her teeth, a seductive pose if he'd ever seen one. "You're a man of many talents, Captain Smith."

He smiled back. "A man of many goals," he corrected. "And many ways of obtaining them."

"Well, Captain..." She took a step closer and he stood up straight. Past the boundaries of what might have been considered socially acceptable, she crouched in on his personal space until her lips were only inches from his. He remained calm, uninterested by all indications, and certainly not intimidated. "If your methods are as diverse as you claim, then I suppose you will be very successful in obtaining your goals."


	2. Chapter One

**CHAPTER ONE**

**1973**

**Somewhere in Western Oklahoma**

Hannibal breathed deep, taking in the damp, early morning air. The morning sun was burning the dew off of the fields, and the horses were already wandering. He'd been up for two hours, but was only now sitting down on the back porch of the large farmhouse, a cigar in one hand and a half-empty mug of coffee in the other.

"You need a warm-up on your coffee, Jack?" a woman's voice asked from inside the screen door.

"Please." He offered the cup, and she stepped outside, letting the door clack loudly behind her. The sound startled the birds at the feeder and they all flew up and away.

"You sure you won't think about staying another month or so?" she asked as she refilled his cup. "It sure has been nice having you around to help out. Ever since Charles passed away, seems I can never keep up with all the chores."

"Sorry, Ann," he apologized, almost sincerely. "I've got to get moving."

"Ah, well." She turned into the house for long enough to set the coffee pot back on the counter, then re-emerged. "It sure has been nice having you around."

Hannibal glanced at her, and took a few puffs on his cigar before he looked back across the yard at the horses grazing in the morning sun. As beautiful and relaxing as the farm was, there were very few places he'd enjoy less. It was safe - at least relatively so - and he lived comfortably as far as money was concerned. His room and board was paid for at every farm he went to, and hot meals were usually included. He collected a paycheck - exactly two of them, no more or less - and moved to the next farm once he'd fulfilled his quota. He couldn't stay in one place for too long.

But if he was really honest, he hated it. He was good on a farm; he'd grown up on one. But there was reason he'd left home and never looked back. And every one of these god-forsaken ranches along the Bible Belt of the Midwest reminded him of that reason. He was bored out of his mind, and no amount of money or comfort was worth that.

"I just don't know what I'm gonna do with you gone."

"I'm sure you can get somebody to take my place. It's a nice room, a nice farm." He smiled at her. "And you're a wonderful cook."

She smiled back. "Thank you. You're too kind."

"Not at all."

"Would you like me to give you a ride to..." She hesitated for a long moment as she realized she didn't have a clue where he was going or how far it might be. "You still haven't told me where it is you're headed, you know."

"That's because I'm not sure yet."

"Well, if you don't got nowhere to be, you should stay here!"

He chuckled at the simple solution and lifted his coffee, studying it for a long moment. Where _was _he going? He'd been moving west, from Alabama, all the way through Oklahoma. Maybe he should head up north, into Kansas. Not that there was anything he cared to see in Kansas. Of course, there was nothing to see here, either.

"If you could give me a ride to the train station, that would be a big help."

"Oh, there ain't a train that goes anywhere but south and it's all the way in Oklahoma City."

He frowned. Oklahoma City was two hours' drive back the way he'd come.

"You know, I got a sister up in the next county might know somebody who needs some farm help. If you'll be lookin' for new employment. You'd sure get a good reference from me."

The next county. The next farm. They were all the same. Hannibal sighed as he puffed a few more times on his cigar, and suddenly realized something. "Hey, is Barlow Creek anywhere around here?"

"Barlow Creek? It's about forty, fifty miles northeast." She glanced at him. "My Charles was from the next town over. Used to go up there and see his folks all the time."

"Any chance I could get you to drive me there?"

She studied him carefully. "Sure. You know someone up there?"

"I did," he answered quietly, looking away. "I'm not sure if he still lives there, but I'd like to find out."

**Las Vegas, Nevada**

"Do you think you'll ever see him again?"

Templeton Peck lay still on his back, staring at the ceiling but not really seeing it. Images were flashing across his mind - memories of a time he'd like to forget. But it still haunted his dreams. Really, it haunted his every move. Underneath the calm exterior of the well-educated and very successful Las Vegas escort was a soldier. It was something he worked very hard to hide. And most of the time, he succeeded.

"I don't know," he finally answered. He turned his head and locked eyes for a moment with the woman lounging comfortably in the beat up chair on the other side of the room. She was watching him with interest, but too relaxed and comfortable to make him feel as if she was prying. He was relaxed, too. So relaxed, in fact, that he didn't mind having this discussion.

"I haven't heard from him in over a year. There's a part of me that thinks if he was going to show up, he would've already."

"Maybe he can't find you."

Templeton sighed as he turned and stared again at the ceiling. "This is the only place he _would _be able to find me."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because it's where I told him I was going."

"Is that why you stay?"

He hesitated for a moment, and glanced at her again. She smiled knowingly. "You mentioned before that you didn't do this for the money. And I don't care how incredibly humanitarian you are, there's only so much of yourself you can sell before you have to have a really good reason to keep doing it."

"He doesn't know what I do here." His eyes shifted back to the ceiling. "That part of the plan came later."

"Do you think he'd approve?"

"I don't think he'd care, to be honest." Templeton sighed and turned onto his stomach, pulling the pillow under him and hugging it. He turned his face toward her, watching her lazily. "And if he did, I don't think I would."

"Then he's not much of a father figure."

"I never said he was a father figure. I said commanding officer, and I said friend. I distinctly never said father figure."

"Why distinctly?"

"Why are we talking about this?"

She laughed quietly, good naturedly. "Is there something else you'd like to talk about?"

"Give me a minute and I'll think of something."

The last thing in the world he wanted to talk about right now was Hannibal.

**Barlow Creek, OK**

"Hannibal!" The surprise in the man's voice matched the look on his face.

Hannibal smiled back. "Hi, Boston. Nice to see you, too."

Boston put a hand on Hannibal's shoulder and pulled him in through the front door, looking around outside for a long moment before ducking back in. There was no one out there. Ann had dropped him off in town, several miles down the road. He'd walked to the house - slowly and carefully, watching for any sign that he was being tracked - and did a careful sweep of the area before approaching the house. The last thing he wanted was to get Boston mixed up in the mess he was in.

"The military police _still _come around here looking for you, you know that?"

Apparently, his hyper vigilance was well founded.

"No one's watching the house, Boston. And I'll be gone before they come by again."

"Ray," he corrected.

Hannibal nodded his acknowledgment, not about to push the issue.

"Jesus, Hannibal, what happened?"

Hannibal's eyes came to rest on the young woman in the doorway to the kitchen, and he smiled politely at her. "You must be Mrs. Brenner."

She smiled back, and nodded. "Trish."

Recovering from his shock Ray stepped forward to make introductions. "Honey, this is John Smith," he introduced. "He was, uh..." The hesitation was too long. He was shifting uncomfortably and Hannibal could feel the tension sheeting off of him. "Was my commanding officer in Vietnam."

Her smile grew, and she took a step forward, offering a hand. "Very nice to meet you."

"The pleasure is mine," Hannibal said, shaking her hand. "Your husband is one of the finest soldiers I've served with."

She blushed slightly. "Well, thank you." As Hannibal released her hand, she locked arms with Ray. "Can I offer you some coffee? Something to eat?"

"Coffee would be nice, thank you."

"Of course."

She turned away, disappearing into the other room. Hannibal watched her go, hands clasped in front of him. Once she was out of earshot, Ray finally spoke again, brow furrowed and eyes worried. "What happened? You guys were arrested? And escaped from a military prison?"

"Yeah, it was fun," Hannibal answered casually, taking a seat in one of the living room chairs. Ray sat on the couch.

"How? Why?"

"Over the wall." It was a very simple explanation, really. "And as for why, a life sentence for a crime we didn't commit just didn't set right with any of us."

"So you _didn't _rob that bank? Because given the scandal that it -"

"We were under orders," Hannibal interrupted.

His eyes were cold and hard on Ray's, waiting for him to call his bluff. But instead, Ray looked away. "Jesus, and all the things we did under orders, _that's_ what they picked to burn you on?"

"I'm still not entirely sure who set what up," Hannibal admitted. "But it was a setup. And, if I had to guess, a fairly elaborate one."

Ray lowered his head, shaking it. "I guess I just don't know what to say. I wish I could help but..."

"I didn't come for help."

"Well, that's good. Because the last thing I need is to get hauled off to Leavenworth for aiding and abetting a military fugitive."

"That won't happen."

Finally, Ray glanced up. "So why are you here, Hannibal? Why now?"

Hannibal hesitated, but only briefly. No sense in beating around the bush. "Have you heard from Face or BA?"

Ray blinked, startled. "No. Are they not with you?"

"We split up. Shortly after we escaped."

"Why?"

"The odds were better."

"Yeah, but... still."

The look in Ray's eyes was almost pained. Definitely confused. He didn't have to speak for Hannibal to know what he was thinking. Splitting them up was probably the most detrimental thing Hannibal had ever done to his team. He hadn't felt that way when he'd made the call. But he was beginning to realize, one day at a time, the fragile meaning for existence in his own life. And he was _used _to being alone - ostracized even from a young age. He couldn't imagine what Face and BA were probably going through.

"Well, you haven't been caught, so apparently the odds were in your favor."

Hannibal nodded.

"If I had to guess, BA would probably go home. Chicago, isn't it?"

"That's where his mother is, yes."

"I can't imagine he'd go too far from her. Face... I don't know."

Hannibal had an idea where to find Face. At least, where to start. "I'll be able to find them. I just thought I'd save myself some time if they'd checked in here."

"No." Ray shook his head. "Though the MPs have been through several times and there was a woman, too."

Hannibal raised a brow. "What woman?"

"She didn't say. And I... heh." He stood, turned toward the desk, and pulled an envelope from the drawer. "I didn't ask. She handed me the letter and said to give it to you if I saw you. I figured the less I know, the safer we all would be."

"Probably," Hannibal agreed, reaching up as Ray extended the letter to him. On the outside of it, in neat, definitely female handwriting, was only his first name: John. He didn't recognize it. "How long ago was she here?" he asked, turning the envelope over and slitting it open.

"Just a few days ago, actually. That's part of why I was so surprised to see you. Nothing for a year and then..."

"Did she say anything else?"

"I told her I had no idea where you were, but she was pretty insistent that I take the letter. I thought she was crazy, but now I'm glad I took it."

Hannibal unfolded the paper and read quickly as Ray sat back down. Mostly, he was just looking for the name of the sender. He found it quickly, and frowned at the letter's contents before he slipped it into his pocket.

"So what does it say?" Ray asked, curious.

Hannibal raised a brow. "Do you _really _want to know?"

Ray frowned as he considered it. "Probably not," he sighed, glancing up as his wife came back into the living room with two cups of coffee. He smiled at her as she handed one to him, and one to their guest. "Thank you, honey."

"So are you in town for very long?" she asked Hannibal as he took the mug from her hands.

"Actually, I can't stay very long at all. I was just passing through."

"Would you at least join us for dinner?"

He considered it briefly, but a quick look at Ray's worried expression nixed the idea. "I appreciate the offer, but I really must be on my way."

He stayed long enough to make small talk and hear about her garden, the nice neighbors down the way, and their plans for a family. He smiled through it. It was only partly fake. He really was happy for Ray. Everything he'd wanted, he'd found. And he deserved it. He'd been one of the straightest arrows Hannibal had ever known when it came to his wife, and it showed in their complete trust and security with each other. It was almost palpable.

Ray offered to drive him back to town, but he declined. He wasn't entirely sure which direction he was headed yet. As they stood on the porch and said their final goodbyes, the message was as clear in the final handshake as it was in Ray's eyes: "I wish you well. And please don't come back."


	3. Chapter Two

**CHAPTER TWO**

**1973**

**Chicago, Illinois**

The problem wasn't just the car. It was the woman behind the wheel of the shiny black Mercedes Benz. Everybody knew she was Clive's wife. And nobody wanted to be seen helping the wife of the area's most brutal drug dealer. Not even the guys who got paid under the table, like BA.

One by one, the men in the shop drifted away as she open the car door and headed towards the service bay. If she noticed how out of place her Sable jacket and Gucci handbag were in the grime and grit of the auto repair garage, she didn't show it. Instead, she sauntered in, head high, a small smile in place as she spoke.

"I don't suppose any of you boys would be willing to give a lady a hand?"

No one answered; no one even looked at her. Except for BA, who met her stare with a flat look of his own. Standing still, arms crossed, he watched her without comment. He knew who she was; everybody knew who she was. She oughtta know she wouldn't get service from people who'd recognize her. What the hell was she trying to pull? Why not get one of Clive's men to fix her car? Or at least have him drive it in. She was asking for trouble, and nobody was biting.

She looked BA up and down as he held eye contact. It wasn't appraisal. More of a challenge. She expected him to run away like everyone else. He didn't move. He didn't go out of his way to find trouble. But he was here to do his job. He couldn't care less who the client was.

"How about you?" she asked, nodding in his direction.

The look, the car, the fur, the husband - it was all trouble, and he knew it. Men had ended up in the river for just looking at her. Her question made them all shrink back. But BA just watched her with that same blank stare. If he ended up in the river, oh well. Wasn't like he had a hell of a lot to lose.

"What do you want?" His voice was flat and low. It was a question, nothing more or less.

"Someone to look at my car?" She glanced around her. "But if you boys are all too _scared_, I can go somewhere else."

BA watched her as she mocked the men in the garage. There was a clear disdain in her tone, disgust with all of them. Though he had no interest in starting a fight, he was just as unimpressed by them. What did he care if she thought they were all pussies? None of the people who worked here were worth writing home about. Not unless he wanted to start a letter with, "Dear Mama, I work with a bunch of thieves and addicts."

The woman looked back at BA and raised a brow to see if he'd step up to the challenge. He looked back at her. There was no pride in him. At least, none that cared what she thought. But there was no fear, either.

"What's wrong with it?"

"I can't get it to go over sixty. Even slower uphill. It's a goddamn eight cylinder engine; it shouldn't have that kind of problem."

He held her eyes for a second, before slowly unfolding his arms and held out his hand. "Gimme your keys."

_Now_, her look was appraising. She smiled as she held out her keys on her finger, her arm only half extended. It was like she didn't think he was serious, like she was daring him. When he took the keys, her eyes followed him, interest piqued. Suddenly, the mocking wasn't half as much fun as the man who'd defied it.

He pulled the car into the bay and had the hood up without a word, or another glance at her. He ignored the shocked looks and whispers. It took him thirty seconds to tell what was wrong. "You gotta change these spark plugs. Eighty dollars, I fix it now."

"If you can fix it, cash is not a problem for me."

"Fine."

He saw the way she leaned on the car, her loose shirt hanging a little too loosely around her torso. He had a view right down the front of it. He ignored it. He didn't give a damn what she looked like any more than he cared who she was.

He knew what he was doing, when it came to cars. They were simple, logical machines. They followed rules of cause and effect that people simply did not adhere to, and that made them much more comfortable to talk to than the customers who owned them. He didn't say a word to her, though she tried several times to strike up a conversation. In fact, she watched him the entire time, smiling.

When he was finished, she had a hundred dollars cash out and waiting. She held it up between her fingers, but not out, making him come close to get it. As his hand closed over it, she grabbed it tighter, her smile darkening to match the look in her eye.

"Think I could get you to check my oil while you're at it?"

He should've been afraid of the way she was looking at him. But it had been so long since he was afraid of anything, he didn't even know what that felt like anymore.

"Yeah, fine."

She laughed, let him take the money, and watched as he checked the oil in the car.

"Oil's fine. If you want it changed, you gotta get someone else to do it." He looked at the clock. "Time for me to go home."

He turned and wiped his hands on the rag and then tossed it down on the tool chest.

"I don't suppose you'd like a ride."

He looked at her, then again at the clock. Might as well let her drive him. Better than the bus. He hated that damn bus.

"Yeah, sure."

Without another word he put his coat on and walked to the passenger side of her car. He didn't care who saw him as he got in and waited silently for her. The murmurs and uneasy looks were very obvious. She smiled at them all as she stepped into the driver's seat, turned the car over, and pulled out of the garage.

**Seattle, Washington**

Elaine Westman lived one of the most convincing lies Hannibal had ever seen. Wealthy and sophisticated, she was also rumored to be dangerous and manipulative. Hannibal knew her to be none of those things. Her only money technically belonged to her husband, General Ross Westman. She'd grown up in a family that was neither rich nor poor, and what sophistication and culture she'd gained was also from her husband - her late husband, if the letter she'd left with Ray Brenner was true.

Ross had been nearly twenty years her senior. Why he'd ever married her, Hannibal would never know. Hannibal understood the need to marry; it was simply a career move. But why her was entirely a mystery. Ross had never seemed to like her very much, and she certainly hadn't cared much for him. It hadn't taken very long for her to find her way into young Captain Smith's bed. And Hannibal had never been under the impression that he was the first or the last affair that she'd been engaged in.

Technically, that did make her dangerous just by default. Having an affair with your commanding officer's wife was a bad idea no matter how you looked at it. The fact that Westman and Hannibal had something of a friendship outside the bounds of their relationship as commanding and subordinate officer probably made that substantially worse. But as far as he knew, Westman had never discovered the relationship. And if he ever had, it didn't much matter now.

He'd died almost three months ago. Elaine was convinced that it had been murder. It wasn't clear, from her letter, why she believed that - only that she believed it with every fiber of her being. The chance of his death being in any way related to Hannibal, his team, Vietnam, or anything else that should be of any interest to him, were slim. But aside from all of that, Ross Westman had been a friend. And if there was any chance that he had been murdered, Hannibal wanted to know why, and by whom.

A few short years had aged Elaine considerably. Hannibal might not have even recognized her if he'd not specifically been looking for her. And if he hadn't known exactly where and how to find her. She was there, at the cafe, right where she'd said she would be waiting every weekday morning for one hour until he met her there. The routine was precise. She arrived at nine, and at ten, she stood and headed for her car. Hannibal watched her silently from the car across the street. He watched her pull away, and followed at a safe distance all the way to the same house he remembered from all those years ago. Nothing looked different about it. Some things never did change.

He parked at a distance and considered his options. He could meet her tomorrow morning; he knew where she'd be. He could go as himself or someone else, and feel out both what she wanted and why. He had a feeling it had a lot to do with insurance money. Perhaps the more important part of their conversation would be about what she actually knew about her husband's death. It would probably be best not to have that discussion in public.

His other option, of course, was to walk right up to her door, right now. The thought amused him. Would she talk to him? Would she be angry that he hadn't arrived sooner, or relieved that he'd arrived at all? And did he even care? The last of those questions was easiest to answer. He didn't give a damn about her. But he did want control over the situation, at any rate. And he wanted to feel her out before confronting her. Better off if he didn't put her on the defense if he wanted to gain her cooperation. Because if what she'd said in that letter was true, he had bigger things on his mind than her emotional dramas.

**Chicago, IL**

BA lay still, staring at the water stain on the ceiling. There was nothing he needed to say, no emotion or words or thoughts that needed a voice. He felt the mattress move as the woman beside him got up and moved around the bed, picking up her discarded clothes as she made her way around. For a long moment, he didn't bother turning. He didn't care to look at her. But eventually, his eyes turned in her direction and he slid his hand behind his head, watching her in silence as she arched her back and fastened her bra.

She wasn't unattractive. In fact, she was beautiful. Curves in all the right places, petite and well cared for. Tight inside and warm lying next to him. But somehow, all of that meant nothing right now. It should. He should feel something - attraction, gratitude, maybe love or at least the beginning stages of it. Or maybe he should feel the exact opposite - sheer panic at the fact that he had just had sex with one of the most dangerous women outside of the Viet Cong. But instead, he felt nothing - just cold emptiness.

She glanced back at him as she pulled her shirt over her head. "I'd leave you my phone number, but my husband would probably kill you and that would make us both very sad."

Her coy tone and smile should have elicited something from him, as well. Instead, his expression remained as flat as his tone. "He could try."

He wasn't bragging, or trying to impress her. It was just the facts. Someone like Clive could try to kill him, and could possibly even succeed. Clive was a very dangerous man. That should have mattered. But BA had known from the second he spoke to her that Clive would eventually come looking for him. It hadn't made a difference then, and it didn't now. If he killed him, if he didn't, one way or another everyone would die in the end.

She seemed to think he was joking. She laughed, and gave him a smirk, looking over her shoulder to wink at him. "Oh, now don't get too cocky. I want you _alive_ next time I want to see you."

Alive? BA hadn't been alive for a long time now. He wasn't even sure he remembered what being alive felt like. And what did she mean next time? He put the thought out of his mind. He'd worry about that later. Not now.

He briefly closed his eyes as she leaned down and kissed his forehead, like she was putting away her new favorite toy. "I know where to find you though," she whispered.

He didn't have to say anything. He simply opened his eyes again and looked at her, wondering what he would have felt if he was still human. He wasn't human - not anymore. That was gone now too. He was just a thing, a machine. He was the Tin Man, solid on the outside but no heart, no soul. Nothing.

"Next time I need a hand, you'll be the first person I call." She grinned as she stood and almost as an afterthought, tossed a couple of folded bills on the bedside table. "Here's for your trouble, Smiley. Let's just keep this between us."

Another wink, and she grabbed her purse, jacket, and shoes on her way out the door. He didn't bother moving even after she left. He didn't look to see how much money she'd left. He hadn't asked her for money. He didn't need it. He didn't want it. But he didn't care enough to argue with her.

His eyes lingered for a moment on the crumpled bills, then sighed as he reached up and brushed them off the bedside table and into the trash beside it. He had been bought and paid for, like any other commodity. Just another tool. And he didn't even care enough to know what he had been worth.


	4. Chapter Three

**CHAPTER THREE**

**Seattle, WA**

"This seat taken?"

Elaine looked up, gave him a quick onceover, and offered a polite smile. "I'm afraid it is. Sorry."

"It don't look taken." The poor grammar and southern twang would annoy her. The assertiveness would intrigue her. He knew her well enough to gauge just how to push all her buttons.

"I'm waiting for someone," she answered curtly.

"Oh yeah? Who?"

"An old friend."

He paused for a moment - long enough to look one way and then the next down the street. The open air cafe was a comfortable spot for a public meeting. Except, of course, for the fact that it was an open air cafe, complete with many, many vantage points for MPs. Or snipers, for that matter.

"Looks like your old friend stood you up."

He was fishing, looking for any response that was more than the cool, disinterested tone. Finally, with that, he got it - a soft sigh and a brief look of disappointment. "Yes, it does look that way, doesn't it?"

"Looks like he's been standin' you up for a while. You come here every morning, don't you?"

She chuckled quietly. As the subject of a man's attention, her interest grew. "Why? Have you been watching me?"

"Not stalking you, if that's what you mean." He grinned and gestured across the street. "I stop by that bookstore twice every week. I keep seein' you here. Always alone."

"Well, like I said, I'm waiting for someone."

He nodded. "Well, if you'd ever like some company while you wait..."

"Unfortunately, I must wait alone."

"How come?"

She hesitated a beat. "Per request of the man I am meeting."

"Well, if you don't mind me saying so, Miss, no man should leave such a beautiful woman waiting alone day after day. And anyone who does knows full will the risk he takes of losing her to someone more attentive."

She stared at him, both curious and confused. "I'm sorry, I don't think I caught your name."

"Richard Prower Sr."

"Senior?" She looked immediately for a wedding ring - something she was distinctly not wearing.

"Got a son and a daughter and a wife what died 'bout three years ago."

"Oh." She lowered her head. "I'm sorry."

"S'okay. My kids are grown and I went ahead and gave them their inheritance so they live comfortably."

Her brows went up at that, but she didn't speak.

"Life gets pretty lonely now. That's why I seek out the company of beautiful young women like you. Not for anything more'n company. 'Less of course you wanted more."

This time, she didn't know how to respond to the assertiveness. She blushed and ducked her head down again as she stood. "I should really get going."

"Well, how 'bout tomorrow I come join you over here? I'm sure your friend won't mind too much."

How determined was she, really, to meet with him one-on-one, as her letter stated?

"I'd... rather wait alone."

Apparently, she was very committed to the idea. He smiled at that, even as he made every effort to look disappointed.

"It's nothing personal, I would just rather be alone." She hesitated a beat. "Perhaps we could do lunch?"

"Or dinner."

She studied him curiously. Again, the assertiveness was striking. But he knew her. He knew that an assertive male was far more likely to catch her attention than one who was not.

"Or dinner," she finally agreed.

"This evening?" he suggested.

"My, you work fast!"

"I like to take the bull by the horns."

She hesitated.

"I could pick you up," he continued, not letting her back out of the conversation. "Or meet you here, if you prefer."

"I think I would prefer to meet you here."

"Splendid. Seven o'clock?"

"Yes. I'd like that."

"You're not going to stand me up, are you?"

She chuckled. "I certainly won't."

"I didn't catch your name."

"Elaine," she offered, extending a hand. "Elaine Westman."

**Las Vegas, NV**

"What did you say your name was again?"

There was a part of him that didn't want to answer that question. She should damn well know what his name was. She'd been comfortable enough to insult him the night before, achieving the status of the only woman in his not-inconsiderable experience that he had ever walked out on.

"Templeton," he answered, lifting her bag out of the back of the cab.

His smile was perfect, and fake, and as convincing as he could make it, given the circumstances. There were few women in the world Templeton wanted to be around less than the woman in front of him. It was hard to believe he'd actually chosen to come here this morning - to take her to breakfast and see her to the airport - rather than simply leaving her ass in the casino hotel and letting her find her own damn way home. Chalk it up to professional courtesy.

"That's a strange name, for someone like you."

"Someone like me?"

He set the down as he tipped the driver, nodding his thanks.

"It's very sophisticated."

He chuckled at the disdain and mocking in her tone. It was cold, cruel, shallow and calculated, like the woman herself.

"Most people find what I do to be very sophisticated," he stated confidently. "You, my dear, seem to be the only exception to that rule."

She followed at his side as he carried her bag in through the doors of the airport. "Did you give yourself that name in the hopes that it would make you seem that way?"

"Seem what way?"

"More than what you are?"

Was she deaf? Did she not even hear him for her interest in insulting him? She was pulling out all the stops this morning. Probably because she was angry he'd walked out on her the night before.

"I've never needed to glamorize what I do to make myself more respectable. No one would mistaken me for anything less than a well-educated, well-mannered, and well-_endowed _gentleman."

"It's just not really the sort of name a mother would choose."

What the hell was her fascination with his name, all of a sudden? He couldn't shove her on that plane fast enough for his liking.

"I'm sure my mother would be flattered to hear that. She always did like things that were... unique."

"I'm sure she is very proud of how her son turned out. So very pretty, so perfect to the outside observer."

"Oh, I'm certain she is."

There was a dark gleam in the woman's eye as her voice lowered. "Tell me something, Templeton."

"Hmm?"

"Does your mother know anything about this? What you do?"

"No." No sense in lying. In a few minutes, he'd never see her again.

"Why not tell her?"

"I would. But I don't have that option."

"Why not?"

"She's dead."

A brief moment of silence. "So does that have anything to do with your chosen profession?"

He gave her a funny look. "No. Should it?"

She laughed. "Forgotten, abandoned little nothing, turning to sex and learning how to make a living off of being what everyone else wants."

He almost rolled his eyes. "What's your point?"

"Turning sex into a business was a smart move on your part. Since you do, as you said, have the body for it."

That wasn't a compliment. He wasn't sure what it was, but he was sure it wasn't a compliment.

She paused to light a cigarette. "I just wonder, was this your first choice? Or did you have to fail at being something real first?"

"I never really made any attempt to be something real. Fake suits me just fine."

She took a deep drag and let the smoke waft towards him. "You never had dreams of making something meaningful happen? A woman?"

"No."

"It must be so strange to watch the bonding of all the people around you, right in front of you, while you watch, separate and alone and fake."

His smile - his shield - remained in place as he set her bag down beside her at the check in line. His mind was far from here - far from her, and the barbs she was throwing at him with renewed vigor since he'd arrived at the hotel room this morning. He didn't care. She was getting on a plane never to return. At least, she'd never cross _his_ path again. He'd make sure of it.

"Well, I assume you can handle it from here." He nodded towards the desk. "I'd offer to take you to the gate, but I get the impression you'd rather go alone."

She stared at him, her eyes cool and unaffected. **"**I will be expecting a refund for my last day. When I pay for attention, I expect to be much better attended."

He chuckled. She'd paid good money to insult him. Since that's what she'd chosen to do with the evening, he had obliged her. There was no refund to be issued here. But he wasn't about to start a fight with her over it, either. He already had the money, and she would never be able to find him again.

"We'll be in touch," he said, then gave her a slight nod as he backed away. "Have a safe trip."

"Goodbye Templeton. And word of advice? Learn how to fake it better or you won't stand a chance in this town."

He smiled as he turned away. In his own opinion, at least in every regard he cared to measure, he'd made it just fine in this town.

**Seattle, WA**

"So what is it you do for a living, Mr. Prower?"

"Oh, I'm self-employed."

"Oh?"

He chuckled at her feigned interest and smiled at her across the table. "I pretty much manage my properties for a living. My family left me quite a bit of property in Oklahoma. Property what's got oil on it."

"Oklahoma," she repeated. Her interest was piqued at the mention of oil, just the way he'd known it would be. "You're a very long way from Oklahoma, Mr. Prower. What are you doing in Seattle?"

"Enjoying the weather," he answered with a smile.

She laughed. "Ah, you like rain, then?"

"At least it's predictable. The only thing that changes on the seven day forecast is the percentage."

She smiled, and finished the last of her meal before setting her fork aside and reaching for her glass of wine.

"What do you do?" he asked.

"Oh, I haven't worked for some time." She lowered her eyes. "My husband - _late _husband - was a general in the Army."

"I see. You live comfortably, then."

"I suppose. His pension well enough pays the bills."

"How long ago did he pass?"

She studied the tablecloth for a moment, then gave a tight smile as she looked back up. "Let's talk about something else, shall we? Something more pleasant."

Well, that was annoying. Her late husband was the whole reason he was here. Ignoring his impatience to talk about the important things, he laughed quietly. "What did you have in mind?"

She smiled, and glanced at her watch. "Actually, I really should be getting home. It's been a wonderful evening but I have an early morning appointment."

"Certainly."

He gestured for the check, paid, and escorted her out the door to the car waiting outside. From there, he drove her home with only minimal conversation, all of it light and carefree. Following her directions, he finally pulled to a stop in front of an elegant house on a quiet street. There were no cars parked on the street, and no one walking under the bright streetlights.

"So you live in this large house all by yourself?" he asked as he walked her to the door.

"Yes, only me and the caretakers. I've thought of finding another place, but my late husband loved it so."

Ross Westman hated this house.

"My daughter has a house like this," he mused, studying the pillars of the front porch. "I bought it for her on her eighteenth birthday."

The "wealthy landowner" claim had not gotten her attention quite the way he'd hoped it would. But from the way she pulled up short, he suspected she'd taken notice to mention of his daughter's house. He smiled.

"She really is spoiled rotten," he continued, almost wistfully. "But what good is money if you can't spoil the ones you love?"

"Indeed," Elaine smiled. She paused at the door, her hand on the key that slid easily into the lock. Then she turned to him. "Would you care to come in?"

He smiled. Perfect. "I think that'd be nice, thank you."


	5. Chapter Four

**CHAPTER FOUR**

Elaine opened the door and stepped into the foyer, holding it open until her date had passed through. His eyes scanned the room, the winding staircase leading up to the second floor, the lavish decorations on the walls and windows. "I must say, you have excellent taste."

"Thank you," she smiled. She led him to a sitting room, off to the left. "Please, make yourself at home. I'm going to change into something more comfortable."

"Certainly."

She smiled as she turned away, and he watched her disappear up the steps. After another quick look around, he kicked his shoes off at the door, pulled the wig off of his head, and peeled away the mustache and the layers of liquid latex and putty on his nose and under his eyes. He wiped the remainder of it off with a handkerchief, then left his jacket on the arm of the sofa as he walked up the stairs.

Her door was cracked open, and he could hear the sound of her humming as he came close. She was turned away from him, and didn't even notice as he pushed the door open a little further, leaning against the frame. He watched as she let her hair down. The evening gown had been draped across the foot of the bed, and she now wore a light, pink robe. He suspected a nightgown beneath it, unless she was getting really bold. Either way, he had her right where he wanted her. He was holding all the cards.

"Comfortable yet?"

She gasped, and spun to face him. Immediately, her eyes widened to the size of saucers. Leaning in her doorway, ankles crossed casually, Hannibal watched her reaction with a sense of satisfaction. She'd had no idea it was him, and it took several long seconds for the realization to set in. By that time, he'd already entered the room and pulled the curtains on the open window, affording them some more privacy just in case she wasn't as alone as she'd claimed she was.

"You seem surprised," he finally said, pausing beside a chair in the corner. He withdrew the pistol from the back of his pants and set it down on the small table next to the chair before he sat down, making sure she saw it. He didn't expect her to try anything; she was too unprepared. But he wasn't stupid. He was a military fugitive. She was a general's wife. At least, she had been.

"You did ask me to come."

Finally, she gave a tight, nervous laugh. "I didn't expect you to come here."

"Why?" he asked, tipping his head as he studied her, reading her body language. She was surprised, but not fearful. "You didn't really think I'd walk right up to a general's wife in broad daylight at an open-air cafe..."

"No," she admitted. "Honestly, I expected you to follow me home from the cafe. I never expected you to take me to dinner first."

He smiled. "Glad to have surprised you."

"It's a pleasant surprise." As the shock slowly wore off, she moved closer. "You're much more attractive without the mask."

"But less so without the money."

She sighed as she crossed her arms over her chest elegantly, leaning back on the post of the bed with a smile. "You know me too well, John."

He smiled at her sigh, knowing he'd hit the nail right on the head. "I know you well enough. Tell me about Ross."

**Las Vegas, NV**

"You knew _exactly _what I wanted!" The woman's gasp of surprise and delight was not unexpected.

"It wasn't too hard to guess," Templeton answered with a superficial smile.

"Aw, you know me so well!"

Actually, Templeton had just met the girl. He didn't know her last name, her occupation, her interests, or even who was paying her fare. He was far more unprepared than usual. But she hadn't originally been his client. Steve had both overbooked and overestimated his ability to obtain the drugs she wanted in the quantity she - or whoever was footing the bill - had requested. Steve knew his way around the drug world. But his supplier laughed at the amount he was requesting on such short notice. In fact, it had taken Templeton a considerable amount of maneuvering to get his hands on that much coke in less than three hours. But someone was paying him very good money to keep her busy - and high - for the night.

He watched her snort the line of coke, then cough and laugh. He was smiling, but he wasn't feeling it. She'd been a pretty girl, once. Before the drugs. Wrapped up in expensive clothes and already halfway to la la land on drugs that had also been paid for by her meal ticket, she didn't present too many options for who that meal ticket was. He didn't want to be named or known, but she came with no luggage and knew her way around. She was a local. That made the list shorter and, more importantly, more specific. Templeton would tread softly. She most likely belonged to someone who'd bury him without a second thought if he didn't keep her happy.

"Come on Tempy-ton." She was too high to figure out how to say his name. "Have a hit. It will leave you smiling."

She leaned on him, one cold thin hand on his neck, the other on the tightly rolled hundred dollar bill she was offering him. His smile was completely fake as he shook his head, slid an arm around her waist, and kissed her cheek. "No thanks. This is all for you."

"Oooh, _all_ for me?"

She leaned over his knee and put the bill on the mirror, snorting another line and blinking at the rush as she wiped the powder off her nose with the back of her slightly shaking hand. Giggling, she started to sing as she flipped onto her back across his lap. "Come fly with me, come fly, we'll fly away..."

He held her steady so that she didn't fall. A moment into her song, she seemed to suddenly notice his hand. She used it for balance as she sat up on his knee, pulled her loose silk blouse off over her head, and smiled at him. Naked from the waist up, she was too thin to be pretty. He could count every rib as he held her gently, afraid she might break in his hands.

"God damn this is good shit. I would _kill _someone for bogarting this."

She hit him with a sloppy kiss somewhere near his lips, and he returned it as best he could before he had to catch her to keep her from falling off his lap. "Let's leave the murder out of the equation for now, hmm?"

This was going to be a long night.

**Seattle, WA**

"Your letter said that Ross was murdered. Perhaps you'd like to tell me more about it. Since that _is _the reason why I came."

"I'm glad you got my letter. I wasn't sure if you were keeping in contact with Brenner."

"I'm not," Hannibal said flatly. "I stopped there when I was passing through because I hadn't seen or talked to him since he left Vietnam. And he asked me not to do it again. And I can't say as I blame him."

She frowned deeply. "I'm sorry, John. I don't really know any of the details about what happened in -"

"Please," he interrupted her. "Tell me about Ross."

She sighed deeply, and her smiled fell as she sat down on the bed, pulling her legs up underneath her. "They say it was suicide," she said quietly. She glanced up at him. "But I don't need to tell you how ridiculous that sounds. Ross would never have taken his own life."

Hannibal lowered his eyes briefly. "War can do funny things to people. Even people like Ross."

"I would be lying if I said the war hadn't changed him. He was... angry. Especially at you." She looked up, meeting Hannibal's gaze. "He didn't know what to believe when they brought those charges against you. Then when you broke out of prison..."

"We didn't have a chance in hell of winning that trial. We'd robbed a bank. There was no way to prove that we did it under orders."

"Well, when you ran, Ross saw it as an admission of guilt."

"I imagine a lot of people did."

"And that doesn't bother you?"

"Did you call me here to persuade you of my innocence or to do something about your husband's untimely death?"

She looked away, quiet for several long moments. "He was angry. But he never would've taken his life over it."

"There are other things - things he might have never told you about - that change in a man who's seen war."

She glared at him. "Look, you're either going to believe me or you're not. But when I left that morning, he was perfectly fine. We even made dinner plans. When I came back, he was dead. I may not have loved him, John, but I knew him. He did not commit suicide."

"How did he die?" Hannibal asked pointedly.

"A bullet to the head."

"Where?"

She stared. "What do you mean, where?"  
"Did he eat the gun or did he put it to his temple?"

"What the hell difference does that make?"

Hannibal kept his voice low and even. "It makes a difference."

She swallowed hard, and set her jaw, lowering her eyes. "The side of his head," she finally whispered. "The gun was in his right hand."

Hannibal's eyes narrowed. "Ross was left-handed."

"Yes. He was."

He considered that quietly for a few moments. Gun to the temple was not the way to commit suicide. Too much danger of living through it permanently incapacitated. Ross would know that. Maybe there was something to her claim that he couldn't have been responsible for his own death. "The police investigated?"

"They said suicide."

"Did he leave a note?"

She nodded slowly, eyes down. "All it said was, 'I'm sorry.'"

"Did he sign it?"

"No." She looked up. "But it was his handwriting."

"Do you still have it?"

She shook her head. "I threw it away when the police gave it back to me. I couldn't stand looking at it."

Hannibal glared at her briefly. "If you knew we were coming, perhaps you should've put it in a drawer where you didn't have to look at it, and kept it so we'd have it."

"I didn't know you were coming. It was a shot in the dark, but I honestly didn't think you gave a damn."

He said nothing. She was quiet for a minute before she looked up again. "I know you're not a private detective," she finally whispered. "But you're the only person in the world I could think of who'd even hear me out. And I have to find out who did this."

"Why? Admittedly, you didn't love him. So why do you care so much?"

"Just because I didn't love him doesn't mean I wanted to see him murdered."

"Oh, I'm sure." He stood, grabbing the gun off the table and tucking it back into his pants, behind him. "So how much was his insurance policy worth?"

She looked up, startled. "Excuse me?"

He took a few steps and paused beside her, on his way to the door. "Don't play coy with me. You and I both know this is about money, and insurance doesn't pay out for suicide. You want my help? You tell me how much it's worth to you."

She glared at him. "You bastard."

He walked to the door, not hesitating in the slightest. "Take care of yourself, Elaine."

Out the door and down the hall, he descended the steps without breaking stride, and grabbed his jacket off the sofa in the sitting room. He'd put his shoes back on and had his hand on the door when her voice finally stopped him.

"Name your price, John," she called from the top of the stairs.

He turned, and looked up at her. He knew full well that Ross Westman's insurance policy was probably close to a million dollars. And that said nothing of the investments and savings she would inherit by default. But unlike her, if Westman had been murdered, he was far more interested in justice than money.

"Hundred thousand dollars."

"Done," she answered without hesitation.

"Fine." He turned and opened the door. "I'll be in touch." Without another word, he disappeared into the cool night air and headed back to the rental car. He had a long drive ahead of him.


	6. Chapter Five

**CHAPTER FIVE**

**Las Vegas, NV**

"Have you seen this man?"

It was only the fourth casino Hannibal had been to on the Las Vegas Strip, but already he was beginning to wonder if Face had moved on. Of course, he also realized he was looking for a wanted man - one who was smart enough to cover his tracks. Some of these "no"s had probably been coerced by a fifty dollar bill. The problem was, Hannibal didn't know which ones. And he didn't want to be led on a wild goose chase.

The man at the bar shook his head, and Hannibal backed away, taking Face's picture with him. It was the only one he had, and he'd gotten it from Ray. The fact that it was almost four years old probably didn't help much with the recognition.

"Miss?" He stopped one of the cigarette girls. "Have you seen this man?"

She shook her head, and he lowered the photo again. "Thanks anyways."

He only made it a few steps this time before a different woman stopped him. "You lookin' for that guy?" she asked.

Hannibal raised the picture again and showed it to her. "This guy, yeah."

"He a friend of yours?"

"You might say that."

"I know who he is," she said, regarding the picture out of the corner of her eye. "He owes me money."

"How much money does he owe you?"

"Twenty bucks."

Hannibal realized, of course, that the chances of her actually knowing Face, much less being owed money by him, were slim. Still, it was the first lead he'd had all night. He paid her, and she smiled as she took the money. Then she took the photo and studied it. "That's an old picture," she observed. Her eyes narrowed as she studied it. "Is that Army clothes he's wearing?"

"Yes."

She laughed. "Shit, I never would've guessed he'd been in the Army." She handed the picture back. "He's checked in over at The Landmark."

"Any idea what name he's under?"

"He said his name was Templeton."

Hannibal could feel his eyes widen slightly. That was no coincidence.

"I remember it because it's so weird. But I don't remember his last name."

"Thank you," Hannibal offered, sincerely.

"Sure. He was in room 400-something, if that helps."

*X*X*X*

Face was asleep, even though it was the middle of the day, on his back with one arm around a naked female and the other hand under his pillow. There was probably a pistol in that hand, Hannibal knew. He proceeded into the room with caution, closing the door quietly behind him as he slipped the lock pick back into his pocket. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness; the sunlight was blacked out by the thick curtain.

He was still surprised that Face had checked in here under his real name. It seemed an unnecessary risk. Of course, he hadn't been caught yet so the risk apparently wasn't too terribly high. Hannibal also realized that he did have an advantage over the MPs in that he knew which city Face would be in. If he'd had to canvas the entire country, finding him might have been a bit more difficult.

Face stirred, and Hannibal glanced at him before turning away, surveying the items on the top of the dresser. "I'll kindly ask you not to shoot me," he said quietly. "If you're awake, over there."

No answer. Hannibal glanced at him, but his eyes were closed. "No?" A slight smile crossed Hannibal's lips. "I'm surprised at you, Lieutenant. Off your guard like this."

His eyes scanned over the wallet, the sunglasses, the empty bottle of champagne sitting in the bucket of half melted ice. They came to rest on a credit card and a curled twenty dollar bill lying next to a few traces of white powder. Hannibal touched his pinky to the powder, and tasted it on the very tip of his tongue. Cocaine.

"It's not mine if that's what you're wondering."

He glanced at the bed and found Face's eyes open, though he was still lying in the exact same position.

"The thought had crossed my mind."

Face's eyes slid closed again. "If I was going to do drugs, Hannibal, I would've done them in 'Nam. Where they were cheap and hard to avoid."

Hannibal turned and leaned sideways on the dresser, crossing his arms over his chest. "As I recall, you carried speed on you."

"Yeah, and I always had a supply, too." Face slid his arm carefully out from under the sleeping woman and pushed himself up, running his other hand through his hair. "Because I never actually used it unless I had to."

Hannibal watched as he swung his legs to the floor, grabbed the pistol from under his pillow, and set it on the dresser as he headed closer to the door, where his pants had happened to fall the night before. "It's good to see you, Lieutenant."

"Yeah, you too." He used the wall to brace himself as he put his legs into his pants. "You're lucky I wasn't asleep. Wandering into a locked room is a good way to get yourself shot."

"I did knock," Hannibal answered, glancing at the woman sprawled on the bed. "When you didn't answer, I didn't think you were here. And I didn't want to wake your friend by announcing myself when I realized you were."

"My friend is high as a kite." Face bent down to pick up his shirt. "Even if she woke up, she'd be catatonic."

"Nice choice in friends."

"It's a long story." Face slipped into his shirt, and looked across the dark room as Hannibal as he buttoned it. "So what are you doing here? Everything okay?"

"More or less."

Face left the top button of his shirt undone and tucked it in, then grabbed the shoulder holster off the chair, slipped it on, and shoved the gun into position. "Shall we?" he smiled, gesturing for Hannibal to lead the way. He grabbed his tan sports coat on the way to the door. "You came all the way out here; let me buy you a drink."

***X*X*X***

"So where have you been?" Face asked, sipping a glass of red wine.

"All across the lower Midwest," Hannibal replied, studying his own glass of scotch. "Spent a fair amount of time in the Arizona desert. Farm work when I couldn't take any more of the solitude."

"I thought you liked solitude."

Hannibal didn't answer that. He glanced once more around the casino bar - ever-aware of his surroundings - then back up at the man across the table. Face looked good. He'd let his hair grow out a little - it covered his ears now, and the sun-bleached highlights had begun to grow out. He still didn't look as if he'd aged a day. Even the stress of a fugitive lifestyle had not taken its toll. Of course, he didn't seem all that stressed by it.

"And I thought you didn't like wine."

"I didn't." Face glanced away. His gaze lingered on the female bartender, but the look was more thoughtful than lecherous. With a smile, he looked back at Hannibal. "I discovered it was an acquired taste."

"What made you decide to acquire it?"

"I was drinking too much." Face lowered his eyes, staring at the dark red, almost purple liquid as he swirled it around. "It's harder to drink an entire bottle of wine in twenty minutes than a bottle of vodka." He glanced up and grinned. "Not impossible, but it's... unnatural."

"And more expensive."

"Depends on the vodka."

"Do you have a job?"

"I do." Face glanced up and looked Hannibal in the eye. "But I'd rather not talk about it."

"I'm not here to pry."

Face lowered his eyes again, hesitating in the long silence that followed. "So have you talked to anyone lately? BA? Murdock?"

"No." Hannibal sipped his scotch, and sat back in his chair. "I called the VA about three months ago. To check on Murdock. But I didn't talk to him."

"Why?" Face asked quietly, head still lowered. "He couldn't or you couldn't?"

A long hesitation preceded Hannibal's answer. "I couldn't," he finally admitted.

Face looked away. "Well, at least you called."

"I don't know if I really want to drag him into this," Hannibal sighed. "Even if he could handle it."

"Is he doing any better?"

"The nurse I talked to seemed to think so."

Face nodded, but kept his head lowered. "So what are you doing here, Hannibal?" he finally asked, looking up. "What's this really about?"

Hannibal reached into his pocket for a cigar. Before he'd had a chance to find his lighter, Face had offered his. Hannibal smiled. "Thanks, kid."

"Anytime."

Hannibal expected him to light a cigarette. When he didn't, Hannibal raised a brow. "You give up smoking, too?"

Face smiled and sat back in his chair. "Are you ever going to answer my question? Or are we just going to beat around this bush all evening?"

"I have a business proposition for you, Face," Hannibal answered suddenly.

"Oh?"

"It could be pretty lucrative and it's for a good cause."

Face hesitated, studying him. The expression was difficult to read - interested, and yet untrusting.

"I'm listening," he finally invited.

Hannibal paused to puff a few times on his cigar, then took a drink. "General Westman died a few weeks ago," he finally said. "The cops ruled it suicide; his wife thinks it was murder."

"Why does she think that?"

"Because he wasn't suicidal." Hannibal paused, studying the face of the young lieutenant. "And because he shot himself in the temple with his right hand."

"His signature was left handed."

"_He _was left handed."

Face looked away, his brow creased as he considered that.

"There's an insurance policy that his wife won't get unless we can persuade the cops to change their minds on his cause of death. If she gets that insurance payoff, she'll pay us a hundred thousand dollars."

Face took a drink, but he didn't seem the least bit impressed by the figure. "So you want to do it," he assumed.

"If somebody really did kill him, it's not about the money." Hannibal took a drink, finishing the rest of his scotch. The glass clacked on the table as he set it down and took his hands away from it, folding his arms.

Face tipped his wine glass, holding the stem as he spun it on the base. "So how were you planning on finding a killer that the police didn't find?"

"I don't know," Hannibal replied. He smiled. "But it should be fun."

Hannibal watched him carefully. The expression was once again a mix of emotions. As Face's gaze wandered over the patrons of the bar - many of them already drunk - there was a war waging in the younger man's mind. Hannibal couldn't even guess what he was thinking as he watched the waitresses scurrying from the counter to the casino and back again, serving drinks to the people engrossed in the slot machines. He wasn't even sure if the younger man was seeing what he was looking at.

"So can I count you in?" Hannibal asked.

Face's wandering gaze suddenly came to a dead stop. The reaction was instantaneous. Hannibal saw his eyes widen like saucers, he straightened, and looked back across the table with an overly enthusiastic smile. "We should go," he declared brightly, already standing up.

Hannibal didn't have time to look over his shoulder before he heard a familiar voice that he had hoped never to hear again. "Peck! Stay where you are!"

On his feet, Face quickly finished the last sip of wine. "We should go _now_."

Behind him, no more than fifty feet away, Colonel Lynch and three MPs were weaving their way toward them. "This place is getting rather crowded," Hannibal agreed, leaving his cigar in the ashtray as he stood and followed Face quickly around the tables.

"Peck! Stop that man! Military police! Stop that man!"

Face had done this before. Or at least, he had prepared for it. Hannibal knew it by the way he wove through the aisles, by his awareness of the cameras, by the way he used the people to create roadblocks behind them. As they exited the front of the casino and ran to the next one, disappearing inside, Lynch fell behind. Through the casino and exiting this time out of a back door down a hall that Hannibal wouldn't have even known to look for. In the narrow service alley between the casinos, Face turned to him and smiled.

"Seattle, you said? I hear Seattle is nice this time of year. Always wanted to visit Seattle."

"Yeah, let's get out of here," Hannibal urged, grabbing his shoulder and turning him in the direction of the street. "Before Lynch figures out where we disappeared to."


	7. Chapter Six

**CHAPTER SIX**

Eyes wide open, Hannibal was staring at a shadowed, white ceiling. Dripping sweat, hands shaking, not breathing. He sat up straight, forced his lungs to draw in air, and looked around him. Motel room. Empty. 9mm pistol in his trembling hand. He released his grip on it, then pulled his legs up closer to him and hunched forward, covering his face as he gasped a few breaths. There was a fan blowing right at him, and soon he wondered if he was shaking from the nightmare or from the cold.

Finally, he swung his legs off the side of the bed and stood. The other bed in the room was still neatly made, and he stared at it for a long moment before glancing at the clock. Seven a.m. With slow, steady breaths and even steps, Hannibal walked to the bathroom and splashed cool water on his face before wiping it with a towel. Then he grabbed a cigar from the pocket of his shirt, put on the pants draped over the chair, and checked to make sure he had the key before he stepped out the door and into the cool morning air.

Face was leaning forward on the railing, arms folded as he stared out at the sunrise. Hannibal couldn't deny the feeling of relief that washed over him at the sight of the man, unharmed and well-nourished. Well-dressed, too, in the same clothes he'd worn since he'd put them on at the hotel the night before.

He hadn't been hard to find; he'd been in Las Vegas, right where he said he would be. Hannibal wasn't sure exactly what he'd been doing there, but he had some idea. That aloof, untouchable and unfeeling air about him was something of a giveaway that whatever it was, it hadn't been good.

"Did you get any sleep, Lieutenant?"

Face didn't look up. He barely moved as he answered, in a wistful, far-away tone. "No."

Hannibal was exhausted. But the sun had already come up over the horizon, and they weren't safe here. Reno was not far from Vegas, and they'd be found soon. Lynch could be at their doorstep in a moment's notice.

With a deep sigh, Hannibal leaned on the railing beside Face. He bit the end of the cigar before he lit it, and closed his eyes, sighing deeply.

"So are you still tired, Colonel?"

It took him a moment to realize that Face was not talking about the last few hours of rest they'd bought at the motel. Eyes still closed, Hannibal smiled faintly. "I think I'm more bored than tired, to be honest." He puffed on the cigar, and left it between his teeth as he continued. "I've had enough of cows and horses to last me a lifetime."

Face chuckled, but didn't answer. For a long moment, they sat still and silent, listening to the song of the early-morning birds chirping. Finally, Face turned and leaned back on the railing. "So how do you propose we go about finding BA?"

"Not sure yet. I've got a few ideas."

"Where's his hometown?"

"According to his record, it's in Georgia somewhere. But he talked more about Chicago. His mother lives in Chicago. Or at least, she did."

"Think she'd know where to find him?"

"Probably. But we don't know where to find her. And if we did, involving her in this mess would put her in danger. That's not our call to make."

"You think he's in Chicago, though?"

"I'm fairly certain of it."

"So what's your few ideas?"

Hannibal paused for a moment. "I was thinking of putting an ad in the paper."

"An ad in the paper?" Face repeated, incredulously. "What would it say, escaped war criminals seeking third man for firing squad execution?"

"No, I was thinking more along the lines of a front page ad." He raised his hands, painting the headline in the air in front of him. "Famous Vietnam A-Team robs Bank of Chicago." He turned to Face with a broad grin. "What do you think?"

"I think you're out of your mind," Face answered, unamused. He looked away again.

"It's got a nice ring to it, I think."

"Yeah, almost as good as 'A-Team robs Bank of Hanoi.'"

"That's the beauty of it."

"You know, last time we robbed a bank, it didn't end well."

"Well, this time, we'd give the money back."

Hannibal smiled. Face looked at him, skeptically.

"Think of it as a publicity stunt."

"Publicity," Face repeated. "Right. Colonel Lynch would be our number one fan."

"Know anybody who works for the Chicago Times?"

"Not yet." Face sighed deeply. He could hear where this was going, and he didn't like it. "Look, Hannibal, how in the world are the two of us supposed to rob a bank in Chicago? And if we did, how the hell is that going to help us?"

Hannibal sat up. "Tell me, Face. If you saw your team on the front page of the paper robbing the Bank of Chicago - since it should be pretty obvious to you that we wouldn't be doing it for the money - what would be the very first thing you'd do?"

Face only paused for a moment. "Call the reporter."

"Right." Hannibal smiled. "And if the reporter has already received a call from the robbers, and knows the answers to the questions he's asking..."

"That's assuming that the reporter would tell him anything."

Hannibal relaxed back again, still grinning. "Oh, I think BA could get the story out of him. He has a way with people."

**Chicago, IL**

The man's eyes were wide with fear the moment he looked up and saw BA standing over him. He didn't have to ask what this was about. He knew immediately. Eyes wide and stammering over his words, he made the usual pleas and excuses.

"Just give me a few more days. There was a mix up with one of my clients but I'll get the money. I promise I will."

"You got Mr. Marone's drugs?"

"No, but -"

"You got the money?"

"No, but I -"

BA pulled the trigger.

The gun still sounded deafening, even with the silencer, but he was used to it. One shot one kill. He never had to shoot twice. He never had to hesitate. It wasn't just for the sake of intimidation that his employer - one of his regulars; Christoph Marone always seemed to have a job for him - asked at the time of the initial contract whether his operatives would prefer a bullet in the head or the chest if they violated the agreement. Head was faster, but it usually meant a closed casket. Either way made no difference to BA; dead was dead.

He had always had a reputation for being bad, even before he left for the Army. It had grown when he went into Special Forces and coming back a wanted criminal had set it in stone. He'd quickly become known as one of the baddest in a place known for very bad men. No one talked too loudly about BA Baracus - not unless they were willing to face the wrath of a man who had killed with his bare hands, without remorse.

BA hadn't minded that reputation. It served him well, in some ways. For instance, there wasn't a chance in hell anyone in the 'hood was going to turn him in for a quick buck. He was a lot more real and a lot more scary than the MPs who'd come sniffing around every now and again. On the other hand, that reputation did lend itself to a couple of fights - mostly young punks looking to gain a name and some street credit. BA had never had trouble handling them. For the most part it was a quick, bare knuckles brawl that lasted about thirty seconds and took no real effort on his part. But things had changed when a local gang known for running smack and brutal turf wars got it into their heads that if BA wasn't with them, he was against them.

It was more than just a change in situation. It was a change inside of him, as well. He remembered it clearly. He'd found himself surrounded by a group of four of the toughest enforcers the gang had, and their leader, all while a little crowd gathered for the show. It might have gone different if the one pock-faced fool hadn't pulled a gun, demanding BA jump into the gang or die. Once that gun was out, there was no more fighting for pride and pack order, it was life and death. And he was not about to die at the hands of a snot nosed kid..

He had only been back in Chicago for four months then, and those memories and kill instincts from Vietnam were still fresh. He knew he had changed over there, in the bloody rice paddies and jungles and camps of Southeast Asia, but he hadn't realized how much until that sunny day. He knew that anything in him that had survived was made a mockery of when the Army had arrested him for treason. But he hadn't realized how little had been left in the first place. Not until that gun came out.

The only thing BA remembered clearly about the next few minutes was the smell of blood.

When the team had split up, he'd found himself alone with demons he could never talk about or explain. The only people who understood what those demons were made of had scattered into the wind or into madness. Mama had seen the cold change in him, too. On one of the very rare days he was able to make it to see her without bringing more danger and trouble to her door, she had looked at him with sad, hurt filled eyes.

"You have to find someone who can help you. Someone who understands, son. Or that darkness is going to win for good." Then she had hugged him and whispered, "It's alright baby." He'd cried silent, burning tears while she lied to him for the first time since he had found out about Santa Claus.

But even then, he hadn't really understood just how much he had changed. Not until the day he beat down those five worthless criminals. When the red haze had left his mind and the fog of death and memories had cleared, BA had found himself straddling the limp, bloody, almost lifeless body of the gang leader. All five of them were lying in their own blood, unconscious - just this side of dead and unaware of just what they sort of badness they had encountered. The crowd knew, they had gone quiet, stunned, as BA had bent down and wiped his bloodied hand on the fallen nobody's shirt. Then he picked up the bag of carry out food he had dropped and simply walked away. He never looked back and he never felt a thing. Not anger, not satisfaction, not rage, not anything but a vague sense of hunger for barbeque. That's when he knew that anything human in him was dead, and nothing would ever bring it back.

It had been a little over a week later that a large, heavy, sealed manila envelope had appeared in his locker at work. There was nothing on it but the initials B.A. Just seeing his real name - not the one he used on his papers at work - had him opening the envelope. Inside was twenty-five thousand dollars, a photograph, and a typed letter. If BA wanted another seventy-five thousand dollars, all he had to do was kill the man in the photo. If he chose to accept the job, he was to run a classified ad in the paper with the number of the Swiss account he wanted the funds put in.

He remembered that feeling of staring over a deep abyss as he studied that photo. BA knew the man in the picture. Tony "The Ear" Francone was a Mafia don who got his name by torturing and cutting the ears off of anyone who made him angry. And somebody wanted him dead. Easy money. And it wasn't like BA had anything better to do.

Not much had changed since then. The account numbers varied, and how much he was paid, and how far away the memory of who he'd once been faded. He should have felt something when he took each of those lives. _Anything _would have sufficed. But there was nothing - just a big, empty, gaping hole where his soul should have been.

BA removed the silencer from the gun so that it would fit better into the back of his pants. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the dark red blood pool around the man's head. Drug dealers and loan sharks made easy clients. Whoever they sent him after already knew he was coming; there was no need to bargain or debate the outcome. They'd already dealt with the threats, the mild torture, the broken bones. They knew they were about to die. He preferred killing those men over the ones who didn't know, didn't understand. The ones who thought themselves innocent.

He had no particular opinion on guilt and innocence. Once upon a time, he'd recognized a difference between the two. Once, he'd actually _valued _that difference. The good guys versus the bad guys. Us and them. There was no such distinction anymore. There was no "us." There was nothing but "them." The entire world was full of evil. There was nothing good, and nothing worth joining to, forming an "us." There was nothing left of him to contribute anyways; he had been dead for so long, he didn't remember the last time he'd felt something worth living for.

*X*X*X*

"What's on your mind, Face?"

Face sighed. "I can't believe you're actually serious about this."

"Oh, come on, Lieutenant. Where's your sense of adventure?"

Face glared back. "I lost it on the other side of the Pacific Ocean," he said flatly. "And don't call me that."

Hannibal watched him. It was more than just the emotionless tone that was all wrong. It was the look, the feel of him. It was familiar in all the wrong ways. In all the ways that shouldn't have been there. Hannibal rolled the cigar in his mouth as he looked at Face. It was like looking back at the past and turning it around, hiding it behind a facade of unfeeling removal. Just how long would that front hold was the question.

Circling his index finger around his cigar, Hannibal pointed at Face with it. "Second thoughts?"

"About what?"

"Leaving Vegas."

"Lynch was in Vegas. I had to leave."

"Lynch has been in Vegas for a while. You hadn't left yet."

"Few days. I had to tie up affairs."

"And are they all tied up now? Because you did leave rather abruptly..."

Face was quiet. What he _didn't _say was just as telling as what he did.

After a long moment, Hannibal sighed. "Look, kid. It's none of my business what you were doing there. And I really don't want to know."

"Good. Because I've already told you I don't want to talk about it. And I don't intend to."

"But whatever it was," Hannibal continued, ignoring him, "whatever you did to survive, you need to know that I don't give a damn."

Face half-laughed at that - a mocking sound. "Am I supposed to care what you think?"

There it was - the hint of bitterness hidden under the casual nonchalance. Hannibal was quiet for a moment, carefully considering his answer. "Whether or not you care, it should be said."

Face sighed as he looked away. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, Hannibal."

"I haven't had a good night's sleep in a long time."

"Then why the hell did it take you so long to show up in Vegas?"

The accusation was so direct, it was startling. For a moment, it caught Hannibal off guard. He took another moment to think about his words, careful not to give an emotional response. "We all parted ways for a reason. That reason-"

"Still stands," Face interrupted. "So if that's the case, why are you here?"

"What do you want me to say, Face?"

Face glared at him for a long moment, then shook his head. "Don't say anything." He let the silence linger for a moment, then turned and walked away. "There's really nothing I care to hear from you."

"I got to ask, Face."

He stopped at the door, but didn't turn back.

"If you're not interested in having this conversation, why stay in Vegas to begin with?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You knew I'd come."

"No, I didn't know that."

"Then why?"

"What do you care?"

"You don't want to answer the question," Hannibal said, turning toward him. "And that's fine; you don't have to. But you stayed in that city even when Lynch knew you were there. If you really didn't give a damn, or didn't expect me to come, you could've left."

Face's eyes were dead cold as he looked back at Hannibal. "And go where?"

"Anywhere you wanted."

"That's just it, Hannibal. I've got nowhere to be. Never did. And you've known that for a long time."

"You do now."

Face glared at him for a moment, then pushed the door open. "I'm past the point of caring, Hannibal. Whatever you want me to do is fine. Whatever you want me to say, I'll say. It really just doesn't make a damn bit of difference to me anymore."

Without another word, Face stepped inside the motel room and closed the door behind him, effectively shutting Hannibal out.


	8. Chapter Seven

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

Chloroform was a beautiful drug - fast, effective, and relatively harmless. Face hadn't needed to subdue an armed guard since he'd left Fort Bragg more than a year ago. But it still felt like second nature. Almost as easy as picking the lock to get through the back door.

"You know alarms are going to go off like crazy here, right?" Face asked as Hannibal wired two claymores to the hinges of the vault. "In fact, there's probably silent alarms already going off in the police station."

"You just keep an eye out for the other guards," Hannibal ordered. "I'm sure they have more than just one."

Face shook his head, and flexed his grip on the gun that he had already determined was little more than a prop. If they ended up killing somebody on this harmless "publicity stunt," it would defeat the whole purpose. "You know, Hannibal? This is just as crazy as some of those stunts we pulled in 'Nam. Just as likely to get us killed."

Hannibal chuckled. "We're still here, Lieutenant. Now get back behind the counter. This is going to be one hell of an explosion."

Face moved, still on guard. The camera set on the tripod in the corner of the room flashed, and Face jumped before he remembered that they were the ones who'd set the damn thing up, on a timer that would make it flash every thirty seconds. Face had stretched the limits of his scavenging abilities with that timer. C-4 and chloroform were easy to find. He'd had to have that timer specially made - by hand - at the local camera shop. It had taken three days and over a hundred dollars, and that was after he'd found someone who could actually rig it together.

"Fire in the hole."

"Clear."

The explosion shook the counter behind him. The camera flashed again, far enough away that it didn't tip over. By the time Face stood again, Hannibal was already inside the vault. "Better make it fast," Face warned as the sound of footsteps and sirens hit his ears at the same exact time. "We've got company."

Two guards rounded the corner to his left and he turned, firing into the air well above their heads. It was enough to make them fall back, around the corner to safety. It suddenly occurred to Face that this bank had better have a really good insurance policy to pay for the damage they were doing to the structure. So much for a harmless publicity stunt.

"Let's go!" Hannibal ordered.

The camera flashed again.

Face changed his clip with expert speed and fired again - enough to keep the guards' heads down - as he walked backwards. Before he reached the door, Hannibal had disappeared into an office to the right. As he re-emerged, he swept the camera up, yanked the timer off of it to stop it from flashing again, and bolted out the door. Face turned and sprinted after him, across the street and into the alley.

The black sweatpants and shirts came off within seconds; it was a practiced art. They stashed them and the guns in the dumpster. Then, in plain, civilian clothes, they emerged out the other side of the alley with two cups of coffee that were still steaming from when they'd been placed in the alley just ten minutes before. The screaming police cars, flashing red and blue lights, didn't even slow down as they passed. They were looking for two men in black with a bag of money, not two men in jeans and white tourist shirts with a camera and coffee.

"Any chance they saw your face?" Hannibal asked as they walked casually down the sidewalk.

"The guards? No."

"Good. Then they won't stop us."

They paused at the payphone on the corner, and Face reached into his pocket for coins. "This is insane. You know that, right?"

"Just make the call," Hannibal smirked, setting the camera down on the tripod and lighting a cigar.

Face sighed. "You're actually serious about giving photos of us robbing a bank to the press."

"If I wasn't, I wouldn't have taken them in the first place." He flipped the lighter closed and returned it to his pocket. Then he hoisted the tripod up onto his shoulder as Face stepped into the booth, leaving the door open.

"You know, this does sort of take away any hope of deniability on the whole bank robbing thing," Face said dryly.

Hannibal was beaming. "Tomorrow night, when it's time to give the money back, we'll leave them a note at a prearranged location telling them where to find it. And once it's all over, we can make one last call to the press and explain the whole thing. Everyone goes home happy."

"Doubtful." Face had the number to the newspaper written on his palm, and he dialed it into the pay phone. "You think it'll hold up in court?"

Hannibal chuckled. "If they ever manage to get us in a court, we'll have bigger problems than this to deal with."

Face sighed, shaking his head. "Pull you ten thousand miles outside of Vietnam," he muttered under his breath, "and you're still on the jazz."

"Chicago Times," the operator's voice came through the phone.

"Ah, yes, can I speak to someone in your news department please?" Face asked politely. "A reporter?"

"Just a moment, I'll see if anyone's available."

Face covered the receiver and glanced at Hannibal. "They've probably all gone home for the night."

"Well, if they have, we'll just wait and try again in the morning," Hannibal answered simply.

"Peter Tolska, how can I help you?"

Face took his hand away from the receiver quickly. "Hi, Peter, are you a reporter?"

"Yes, I am."

"Ah, good. Listen, this is," Face laughed nervously; it was genuine, "a little awkward for me, but see... these two guys I know have just, heh, well... they robbed a bank."

A pause. "I'm sorry, they did what?"

Now, he had the man's full attention. "Yeah, I know it sounds crazy but I actually got pictures of it and I was wondering... is there any kind of a reward for uh, you know, giving those pictures to you there at the paper? Anonymously?"

***X*X*X***

BA adjusted his stocking cap and then pushed his hands deep into his pockets, hiding from the wind. Despite the weak sunshine, the morning air pushing at his back was cold. It was cold enough and early enough that BA was one of the few people out on the littered and cracked streets. It was just him, the hookers, the dealers and the bums.

There was something that seemed fitting in that to him. They were the walking dead and damned - human refuse. Something in his head laughed at the irony of that. Just like the quote on the Statue of Liberty - the one he learned about in Mrs. Riley's fifth grade class. "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me. I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

Ideals. He remembered what those were, he had fought and killed for them, but he didn't have them anymore. Now he was just one of the tired, the wretched. He should have felt something about that, but he didn't.

Sending a warning glare to a dealer who was coming towards him, BA kept walking. His eyes were alert, body very aware of and reacting to the danger. Funny how he didn't even have to think about it; just like a well run machine his body did everything it need to in order to keep him alive. Years of training and life or death moments had etched themselves right into his brain and nerves. He couldn't stop surviving even when he wanted to; it was his only function anymore.

He had a job - two of them, in fact. There was the auto shop. BA didn't need that job, but he kept it for two reasons. He like working with cars, for one. It was familiar and numbing. He was good with machines - all the order and gears and cause-and-effect made sense to him. Inertia, force, drive, motion, and torque were more than just concepts he gasped, they were a language he understood. Sometimes it was the only language that made any sense to him.

The less-than-reputable repair shop had also turned out to be a boon for his other job - the one that had found him, the other profession he was gifted at...

He put that thought aside as he fished a bill out of his wallet. It could've been one dollar, might have been a hundred, didn't matter. Either way, he slipped it to the man at the newspaper stand as he grabbed a copy of the Sun-Times and kept walking. He didn't need the paper today, but it was habit. He read the paper like he expected to find something interesting even though he knew he never would.

BA was half a block away from the stand when he finally looked at the front headline. Suddenly, he stopped. Breath frozen in his chest, the words slowly penetrated the ice in his mind. Hannibal and Face were on the front page of the newspaper - robbing a bank of all god-forsaken things. They were here, and they were looking for him.

The memories flashed instantly. He knew where to find them. A conversation from a lifetime ago, in a bamboo cage...

"_If you need to be forgotten, to fit in, Cal's Bar on the South Loop in Chicago is where you gotta go Hannibal. Only place besides here I been to where no one cares who you are or what you wanna be. Everyone goes there to forget - black, white, rich, poor. Don't matter at Cal's. Maybe someday I buy you a drink there."_

Hannibal would remember that conversation, too. Just as sure as BA was standing there, rooted to the sidewalk, he knew when Cal's opened at 2 pm, Face and Hannibal would be there. And they'd just extended him a personal invitation.

In that suspended moment in time, he also knew he was leaving. If Hannibal had come to lead, he would follow. Following Hannibal was an involuntary reaction - like breathing. He didn't think about it, he just did it. In just a few short hours, this existence - this purgatory he had been in - would be over. Hannibal wouldn't want to stay in Chicago. And BA would go with him wherever he went.

His eyes slowly blinked as time realigned. There was nothing he needed from his squat or the shop. Other than a couple things he had in a storage unit, everything he needed was on his person. His eyes narrowed as he caught a smaller story lower down on the page. Clive. Arrested and released on assault and battery. It wouldn't have been worth his time to skim the article if he hadn't seen her picture with the story. Clive's girlfriend was in the hospital on life support. God only knew what the reason was for him beating her half to death. And BA didn't frankly care.

Throwing the paper in the trash, he headed towards the steps for the E1 train. He had one last piece of business to take care of before he left town. Then he would call the reporter, to see if Hannibal had left him any message.


	9. Chapter Eight

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

"You seem uncomfortable, Lieutenant."

Face turned and glared at him briefly. "My face is on the front page of the paper," he reminded Hannibal. "Think anybody in this bar might be an off-duty cop? And don't call me that."

"I think that the chances of anyone in this bar caring who you are would be slim to none."

Face shifted anxiously as he swirled the beer in his glass, staring down at it. Hannibal watched him silently for a few minutes.

"You know, for someone who used his real name while on the run, you seem... unduly stressed."

Face glared. "Using my name is different from publishing my picture for everyone to see. People forget names easy."

"You were a permanent fixture in a town with plenty of traffic. Including soldiers on leave."

"Tourists," Face pointed out. "All of them. Most of them drunk twenty-four hours a day. Besides, nobody studies faces when they're on vacation. Everybody's unfamiliar, and you expect it to be that way. No reason to commit any of those images to memory. "

Hannibal watched as Face fidgeted, rubbing his thumb up and down his glass. Vegas was not only a good place to get lost in, it was a good place to be found. Hannibal still wasn't entirely sure how to feel about the fact that Face had been there, right where he'd said he would, even in the midst of Lynch's obvious presence. Had he been just a few days later, Face would probably be in jail. He'd taken a hell of a risk. And somehow, that filled Hannibal with a peculiar sort of guilt.

"Tourist hotspot is the safest place in the country," Face continued absently.

He didn't like the silence, Hannibal could tell. He was trying to fill it with anything, even conversation about things he clearly did not want to talk about. Silence had never bothered him before, never made him uncomfortable. But he wasn't the same. Of course, none of them were. It would be a process to learn who he was all over again.

"It was easy enough for me to find you," Hannibal pointed out.

Face kept his eyes away. "I was expecting you to come looking."

All of the denial and dancing around the words that he didn't want to speak for the past several days came to a crashing halt so abruptly, it caught Hannibal off guard. He was freely talking about this now? Hannibal hadn't even been pressing.

"But not Lynch?" Hannibal asked carefully.

"I knew Lynch would come too."

"Good thing I found you first."

"Actually, you didn't."

"Good thing I _detained _you first. How's that?"

Face's eyes shifted again to Hannibal, then back to the door as it opened, letting another stranger inside. He said nothing. All the nervous tension, the watchful eyes, the fidgeting - it was survival. Face was a hunted man, and if he'd been dealing with a predator breathing down his neck lately, it was no wonder he was paranoid.

Really, there was nothing Hannibal could say to that. It was the sincerest form of loyalty that he had ever seen, and he'd spent a very long time working with very loyal men. Face had said where he'd be, and then waited there until Hannibal came for him. It didn't matter if he'd died waiting; he wasn't leaving. It was flattering and, in a way, terrifying to know what Face was willing to risk for him, even as a civilian. Particularly one who held so much anger towards him.

"Here's to great escapes."

Face eyed him for a moment, clearly not amused by his raised glass. But he followed suit nonetheless. "I hope you have another one planned. It won't take very long for Lynch to get to Chicago."

"I've got plenty of them. Can't wait to try them out."

"Somehow, that's not very reassuring."

Hannibal put his drink down and paused for a second. It was ten o'clock. They'd been here for hours. "There is a chance that BA isn't in Chicago."

Face glanced up, brow raised. "You seemed pretty convinced when you had us rob that bank. Not to mention when we came to this," he looked around the bar, "quaint little hell hole."

"My gut says he's here. But I'm not sure why he hasn't shown yet."

"Maybe he didn't talk to the reporter."

"Whether he did or not, he'd know to meet us here."

"How do you figure?"

"I just know."

Face didn't argue. It was the first time in a long time Hannibal could just say something and know that it would be understood without question.

"If BA isn't here by midnight tonight, we'll head out," he continued. "But my money's on him being here."

"Head out and go where?"

"I don't know. We'll cross that bridge when we get to it."

Face sighed as he looked away again. Hannibal glanced up as the door opened again and his eyes immediately locked on the figure who stepped inside. Very suddenly, Hannibal was smiling - a full, real smile.

"Speak of the devil. There he is."

*X*X*X*

Ordinarily, BA avoided bars. There was nothing in them that particularly appealed to him. But it was a logical place for three fugitives to meet - dimly lit with several exits, yet not out in the open. It took him a moment of scanning to find them, in the back booth, already watching him. He was sure they'd seen him the moment he opened the door.

Eyes firmly on them, he moved toward the booth through the haze of smoke, and tables. He hadn't let himself think about what it would feel like to see them again. Now that he was right smack in the middle of it, it almost felt like he was moving in a dream. He'd given up hope of this reunion a long time ago. Now that they were just a few feet away, he would be damned if he could figure out what this was supposed to mean.

Was he supposed to care, to hope, to think things would get better? Were they even going to stick around? He didn't care enough to think about it. All he knew for sure at this point was they were here and that meant it was something different, a change. That was enough to have BA standing at the booth, expressionless, watching as Hannibal smiled broadly.

"Evening, BA." He gestured to the other side of the round booth. "Have a seat. We took the liberty of ordering you a coke. If you'd like something stronger, it's on me."

BA sat down across from Hannibal, not returning the smile. It had been so long since BA had smiled, he wasn't sure he even know how to anymore. What did they have to smile about? Was this some kind of sick joke? He leaned back in the booth, watching both of them and folded his arms across his chest. Even on his best days, he wasn't into small talk. There was no reason to start now.

"Why you here?"

Face smiled. "Gee, nice to see you too."

BA scowled. The joking, the smiling, the two of them looking and acting like they had just come back from the best vacation they'd ever had. That cold, frozen feeling still held BA tight, even as a flicker of anger sparked. Even he didn't know if he was mad at them for being fine while he lost everything, or if he was simply mad at the world for the fact that it worked out that way. It didn't matter. Feeling anything at this point was an improvement.

BA turned his scowl to the waitress as she set down their drinks. When she left, he fixed it back on Hannibal. But he had nothing to say. He'd already asked his question, and he still hadn't gotten a good answer.

Hannibal sipped his drink slowly, then sighed deeply as he sat back in the booth. "I have a business proposition for you."

"What business?"

"There's a substantial amount of money in it, but it does mean some risk."

"Don't care 'bout risk," BA said coldly. "What business?"

"Colonel Lynch has started something of a manhunt for us and it's very personal."

BA growled. He was getting tired of asking the same question over and over again. "I seen Lynch."

"If we're together, we will be easier for him to find."

"I told you. Don't care 'bout Lynch. What business?"

"Ross Westman was murdered."

The way Hannibal paused after that almost led BA to believe he was supposed to say something. But he didn't have a clue what he was supposed to say. What did he care if Westman was murdered? Westman had left them high and dry in their courts martial in Fort Bragg. Hell, he'd agreed to testify _against _them. BA didn't care if he was dead.

"So?" BA finally asked when Hannibal didn't continue.

"So I want to find out why and by whom."

"What difference does it make? Guy didn't care 'bout us. Why should we care about him?"

"_I _care about him," Hannibal stated firmly. "And I'm going to find out what happened to him. You're welcome to join me, but you don't have to."

Ignoring his drink, BA sat frozen. Hannibal talked like he had a choice in this. He didn't. Even without knowing anything about Hannibal's "business proposition," BA had known he was in. He was dead here - even Mama knew that. There was nothing to lose. It didn't matter if the plan was drive out of town and off the nearest cliff. Anything was better than this.

BA looked to Face and then back to Hannibal. There was still no emotion when he spoke, but there was also no hesitation, no flinching. "Fine. So when we leavin'?"

"As soon as possible." Hannibal sipped his drink. "Preferably tonight. We have to drive out to the west coast and that's a hell of a long way. But I don't entirely trust our..." he hesitated for too long, "client."

"What client?"

"General Westman's wife."

"The one you was sleepin' with in 'Nam?"

Hannibal froze for a moment. It wasn't a surprise; they all knew about the affair. Hannibal had been the one to bring it out into the open. But confronted b it now, he somehow choked. It took him a few long seconds to answer.

"Elaine," he said flatly. "Yes."

"That why you don't trust her?"

"What do you mean?"

"'Cause you was sleepin' with her?"

"I want this done and over with before she can get any thoughts of turning us in to collect a bounty," Hannibal corrected. "She stands to _lose _money by trying it, and money is a huge motivator with her. But she's finicky and I don't trust her."

"We can leave now," BA said flatly. "I got everything I need."

Face smiled. "Well that makes it easy then."

The sight of them, happy and casual, was almost enough to make BA sick. But he kept those emotions hidden under a mask of dead, expressionless anger. Anger was the safest thing to hide behind. He'd found that out at a very young age, and the past few months had reinforced it with a vengeance.

"To a new kind of mission," Hannibal said, raising his glass with a smile.

Face lifted his own glass and touched it to Hannibal's with a soft clink. "Which will hopefully be much more profitable than the last one."

BA's look shifted between the two of them. There wasn't even an ounce of him that felt like toasting the situation they were in. Still, he picked up his untouched glass. Wordlessly he held it up to them and then took a drink. The only thing he wanted to drink to was the end.


	10. Chapter Nine

**CHAPTER NINE**

Driving straight through from Chicago to Seattle meant they rotated every couple hundred miles. At the moment, Hannibal was asleep in the back seat and Face was trying to wake up in the passenger seat. It was almost dawn, and he could see in the deep shadows that they were in the mountains. This drive was never-ending. He'd been content for the first five hundred miles or so to sit in silence. But after his all-too-brief nap, he needed conversation to get his brain engaged.

Small talk had gotten him nowhere - no surprise since BA had never been much for small talk. Maybe it was time to try something a little more meaningful. Head back, eyes closed again, he spoke quietly so as not to wake up Hannibal if by some miracle he was actually managing to sleep back there.

"So what's with the blood all over your shoes?"

He could feel BA's eyes turn to him, and lazily glanced over just as BA turned back to the road, flexing his grip on the steering wheel. "I couldn't get it off."

Not surprising. Unlike combat boots, the fabric of the sneakers had soaked up the blood. No amount of scrubbing would get them clean. "You work at a slaughterhouse or something?" Face questioned. He knew that wasn't the case, but it was the safest way to bridge the topic.

"It ain't animal blood."

Not animal blood, and with the amount of it present, someone had more than likely died. Whose it was would determine how it had gotten there. "Friend of yours?"

BA's hands were clenching and unclenching on the wheel. There was a dark shadow on his face, in his eyes - noticeable even in the dim light. "I never meet him 'fore I killed him."

Face stared at him for a long moment, trying to determine if he was serious. BA had always had anger issues. But this was new. "I hope that blood doesn't mean you left your footprints all over the scene." He reconsidered as he glanced away again. "Of course, I guess it doesn't really make that much difference. One jail cell's the same as the next if we get picked up."

"You think I'm kiddin'?" BA snapped angrily. "'Cause I ain't!"

"I didn't say that."

BA growled. Face shifted, leaning more against the door and getting as comfortable as he could. It wasn't much of an improvement. "So what did he do?" Face asked.

There was a slight sneer - maybe an attempt to smile from someone who didn't know how to smile? "None of your business."

"Did you work alone or are people going to miss you?"

"Nobody gonna miss me."

Face yawned, slowly coming more and more awake. "Well, I hope you at least made some good money off of it."

It made sense, in a way. When he'd gone to Vegas, he'd gone with the intent to capitalize on what he was good at. BA had gone to Chicago and done the same. And no one made a better hitman than an ex-soldier turned fugitive. There was a part of him that felt he should be surprised. But he wasn't.

BA took one hand off the wheel, using it to reach into the pocket of his jacket. What he withdrew, he tossed on the seat between them. It was a neatly bundled stack of money - several thousand dollars at least. "I made money," he said coldly. "You want it Face? That why you here? Profit?"

Face raised a brow at the money. It had blood on it too. And a nice gold money clip. That meant it probably wasn't payment for a hit. He'd taken it off the guy. Only a guy whose money was illegitimate would probably have that much on him when he died. Maybe he'd jumped to his conclusion too fast. Not a hitman. Vigilante? Face almost chuckled at the thought.

He tossed the money up on the dash, unimpressed. He'd spent the last year and a half selling his soul, a dollar at a time. By the time he'd left Vegas, he'd amassed near seven hundred thousand dollars. He didn't give a damn about money.

"Trust me, money was the last thing on my mind when I agreed to do this. I have plenty of that."

"Yeah, what was you thinkin'?" There was still that undercurrent of anger. Impossible to say if it was aimed at Face personally, or just BA's outlook on life.

Face shrugged, then glanced at BA and smiled broadly. "That I've made enough money and now it's time to move on."

"Why?" BA demanded. "Why did you and Hannibal show up, all smiling. Acting like it's all a game?"

Face laughed. "It is a game. Who outlasts who. If we end up in a jail cell, we lose. But every minute between now and then is one hell of a victory. Especially when we can live very comfortably in the meantime."

BA growled, but didn't answer. Face was smiling as he continued. "I've found that being a fugitive isn't really all that bad. There's fewer rules, more freedom, and a healthy emphasis on currency. You find out what you have that they want and you can make a fortune off of it. But this?" He sighed, almost wistfully, shaking his head. "This is purely for fun."

BA shot a quick glare at him. "Fun?" he shot. "Runnin' for our lives, selling our 'service' for money? That's fun for you?"

Still smiling, Face shrugged.

"The hell is wrong with you, man?"

"There's nothing wrong with being bought and sold as long as the price is right."

"You a fool. A damn idiot fool. You sell yourself, then you got nothin' left. Just a hollow shell that nothin' can fill. Might as well be dead then."

Face glanced at him with a smirk. "That depends on how you look at it. I'm my own greatest asset. If that makes me a shell," he shrugged, "at least it'll be a really pretty and well cared for shell."

***X*X*X***

"You alright?"

The fire in BA's eyes was answer enough. But the empty rest stop was as good a place as any for him to get whatever was eating at him off his chest. And given that Hannibal had a feeling the tension had something to do with Face - and maybe with the large sum of blood-spattered money on the dashboard - it was a good a time as any to talk now that the lieutenant had wandered away from the car.

"What seems to be the problem, Sergeant?"

"I ain't no sergeant now." He scowled as he said the words. It was strange to see that much anger in someone's eyes while the voice was so flat and cold.

"Alright, BA," Hannibal corrected. "What's on your mind?"

This time, the words connected with the anger. And suddenly, it was all coming out, all in a rush. "You and Face been having the time of your lives! This been some kinda vacation for you, all these sixteen months!"

"What makes you say that?"

"Face!" BA gestured wildly toward the restrooms. "Look at him! He just doin' this for fun. He even say so. Like it's all just some kinda big game. I don't like games! Why you here, anyway? This some kinda game to you, too?"

Hannibal didn't flinch. He'd already explained his motive for being here - in detail. "I'm here because Ross Westman's wife believes somebody murdered him. If she's right, I want to know who. I could use your help in getting an answer."

"Answer?" BA challenged. It was hard to say how much of the hard, low growl was anger and how much was frustration that had been there for years with no place to go. "What difference is answers gonna make? You think they gonna say 'sorry we was wrong' and then let us walk away? Like we can be people again?"

"No."

"So you want help gettin' answers that don't matter?"

"I don't think there's a hell of a lot that reallydoes matter at this point, do you?"

"No." The reply was instant - no thought required, no hesitation. It was as if that was the only thing BA was sure of. "So why you here? 'Cause it ain't about answers."

Hannibal smirked slightly. "If not here, then where?"

"How 'bout wherever you been the last sixteen months."

Hannibal looked away, his smile falling. "I've spent the past sixteen months wandering through no-man's-land, accomplishing nothing. If there's some good left for me to do in this life before I die, I might as well get to it. And if not?" He turned and looked BA straight in the eye. "Then you can take that gun you've got in the back of your jeans and shoot me dead right now. 'Cause I'll be damned if I spend another sixteen months with my only goal in life being to stay alive."

"Don't give a damn about staying alive," BA growled back. "Or doing good. They things that don't matter no more."

"Maybe not to you."

"So when you done being righteous for Westman, you gonna go?"

"Go _where_, BA?" Hannibal demanded, his gaze steady and unflinching.

"I don't give a damn where you go!" BA yelled. "To wherever the hell you was, or where you think you gotta go this time."

That's what this was about, Hannibal suddenly realized. It didn't have a damn thing to do with right and wrong, goal and motivation. The only thing in the world that mattered to BA right now was that feeling of abandonment, and the fear that he'd be feeling it again. But the fact was, he wouldn't. Splitting them up was a mistake Hannibal wouldn't be repeating.

"I've already told you," Hannibal answered flatly. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Yeah, you said that before, too. Long time ago. Some bullshit about not leavin' your men."

The words were clearly meant to cut. Hannibal didn't react. His gaze remained steady and just as cold as BA continued.

"I ain't been bored like you and I ain't been partying like Face. You turn your back on me again and the first bullet goes in you. Second one goes in me. 'Cause I ain't got nothin' left. And I ain't goin' back."

For a long moment, Hannibal said nothing. Then, finally, he glanced away. His voice was too casual when he spoke again. "You have a choice, BA. You stay with me, you go back, you kill me and then blow your brains out. All your choice. Your decision and your consequences."

BA said nothing, just watched him, seething.

Hannibal took a step toward the car. "Right now, I'm going to go find out who killed Westman. And then I'll have a choice. But I can tell you this." He paused with his hand on the door handle, and looked back up at BA. "If I was going to lay down and die, I would've done it already. And if I wanted to go back - to wherever the hell it is you think I've been - I wouldn't have come and got you in the first place. Think about that."

Without another word, he pulled the door open and stepped into the car, sliding inside and turning the engine over. He was ready to go, and Face was headed back to the car.


	11. Chapter Ten

**CHAPTER TEN**

Face had never actually met Elaine Westman. He knew well enough who she was. He and Hannibal had damn near come to blows over her about five years ago. Face was not quick to trust, and his first impression of Hannibal had been unfavorable from the start. He'd wanted an insurance policy, and he got it with the photographs of Hannibal and the general's wife. It hadn't been hard to set up. A few bribes in the right hands to get the information, and the walls in Vietnam hotels had been flimsy enough to penetrate without even raising suspicions with the noise.

Coming to the realization that he didn't actually need the blackmail material was much harder. He'd sabotaged himself just to hold on to that security. He'd shown his hand with every expectation that he was holding the high card. Elaine was pregnant, General Westman knew it wasn't his child, and Hannibal had sat listening to the news without so much as a flinch. It was perfect blackmail.

But Hannibal had called his bluff. And even though he wasn't bluffing, there was something about the reactions when Hannibal came clean with his team that struck a chord with Face. Nobody held it against him. Nobody really seemed to give a damn. They stood by him, because he was worthy of their respect even in spite of his flaws.

In the end, Face had regretted ever taking the photos, ever knowing what he knew. It was none of his business, and he wanted nothing to do with it. He didn't know if Hannibal had continued to see her after that meltdown, and he didn't care. Handing those photos over to Hannibal had meant something to him. That was the day he officially and without reservation joined the team. Not just on paper, but in his mind. And he had never looked back.

"Elaine Westman, this is Templeton Peck and BA Baracus," Hannibal introduced. "Elaine is the wife of the late General Ross Westman."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Elaine said, her smile suitably sad for the circumstances. Face couldn't help but wonder how genuine it was as he shook her hand. Her husband had been a meal ticket. It was hard to say just how much love had been lost when he had died. If Face had to guess, just from what little he knew and had overheard in that single night of listening in, she was probably grieving his insurance policy more - an insurance policy that didn't pay out for a suicide.

A house servant brought drinks. They sat on the plush sofas in what Face assumed was one of several living areas. It didn't take long for formalities to be finished, and she began. "The police ruled it suicide. But I know it wasn't suicide."

"Do you know of anybody who might have wanted to hurt your husband?" Face asked.

She shook her head, wringing her hands in her lap. "That's the same thing the police asked. But I have no idea."

"Unusual calls?" Hannibal prodded. "Unfamiliar people in the area?"

She paused for a long moment. "There was a man I didn't know who came to the house asking for Ross, just a few days before he died. When I told him he wasn't here, he said he'd wait. He made me... uncomfortable. So I told him if he was going to wait, he was welcome to do it on the front porch. He was there for several hours, and then he left."

"Did he ever get that meeting?"

"Not as far as I know. But Ross has... _had_ people over from time to time that I never saw. If he answered the door and let them in, most of the time they went straight to his study. I'd only know that someone was here because of the muffled voices."

"Ever hear any arguing?"

"Oh, sure. But nothing that notably concerned me."

"The man who made you uncomfortable," Face interrupted, taking the conversation back from Hannibal. "Why? What was it about him?"

She hesitated. "I'm not sure. He wasn't impolite..."

"Was it the way he dressed? The tone of voice? Maybe the way he looked at you?"

She closed her eyes, as if trying to concentrate, trying to remember. "His hair was too long," she finally said. "That was the first thing I thought when I saw him. And he wore Old Spice cologne. I noticed it right away, because I hate that smell. But that wasn't what made me uncomfortable. It was... There was nothing strange about the way that he looked at _me_. But the way he looked over my shoulder, into the house. He looked around like he was waiting for Ross to appear somewhere, like I wasn't telling him the truth when I said Ross wasn't here."

"How long did he wait there, on the porch?"

"Two hours. Maybe a little longer."

"Then what did he do?"

"He got back into his car and left."

"What kind of car?"

"Dark sedan. I don't really know what kind."

"Would you know this man if you saw him again?" Hannibal cut in again.

She nodded. "I'm certain of it."

Face remained quiet for a moment, thinking, as Hannibal took over the conversation again. A man determined enough to sit on the porch for two hours didn't just give up and go away, never to return again. He came back, or found another way to get whatever it was he wanted. The question was, what did he want? And did it have anything at all to do with the general's death? It could just as easily be a completely unrelated matter.

That said, Face knew a thing or two about instinct. He knew the way that it felt when, for no apparent reason, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up and something was warning him of danger. He trusted that feeling. There was something innate - built into every animal - that could smell out danger even without knowing why.

"We're going to need to take a look at his study."

Face's mind rejoined the conversation in time to see Elaine rise to her feet at Hannibal's words. "Of course. I'll show you the way."

Face lingered a few steps behind as she led them through the house. The study was close to the front door, off of the foyer. Not the most secure location, but probably the most convenient for hosting strangers. Elaine opened the door with the key, but didn't enter. As she stepped back, she lowered her head. "If you don't mind, I won't be joining you. I haven't been in this room since he passed, and I would rather not."

"That's fine," Hannibal said reassuringly. "If we need anything, I'll let you know."

She smiled tightly, and glanced at all three of them. "Will you be staying here tonight? I have plenty of room."

Face and BA both looked to Hannibal. The obvious answer was "no." It wasn't safe. Hannibal knew that. But instead of a firm answer, he gave her a slight, reassuring smile. "We'll let you know."

She nodded, and turned away, leaving the room open for them.

"I don't like that, Hannibal," BA said low. It was the first thing he'd said since they'd arrived.

"One thing at a time, BA," Hannibal answered, stepping into the office.

Face followed a step behind, scanning quietly. The blood stain was still on the floor, as well as on the chair he'd apparently been sitting in before he fell.

Face frowned. "People want to die where they're comfortable," he said flatly, thinking out loud. "Why was he sitting way over here in a less comfortable chair instead of in _his _chair at his desk?"

"Near the pen and paper he would've needed to write his letter," Hannibal agreed quietly, scanning the rest of the room.

"Not much of a letter, way she was talkin'," BA said.

"Hey, Hannibal?"

He turned and looked at Face, brow raised.

"What do you think the chances are that _she _actually killed him?"

"Depends on what she had to gain," Hannibal answered, not the least bit shocked or appalled at the idea. He slid behind the desk and began opening drawers. "But I don't think she's quite greedy enough to risk going to jail for the money."

"An' if she did, why make it a suicide the insurance wouldn't pay out on?" BA added.

Hannibal nodded. "There's that, too. If she had any involvement at all, she's taking a huge risk asking us to poke around. And she's not stupid."

"Just wondering," Face mumbled, checking the bookshelf. Where was the safe in this room?

"What we lookin' for, Hannibal?" BA asked, walking to the filing cabinet.

"Secrets," Hannibal answered. "Anything he might have known that somebody didn't want him to. Maybe more importantly, anything that's out of place. If they killed him, chances are they found what they were looking for and either took it with them or destroyed it."

Face sighed as he moved the picture on the wall aside. No safe back there. "In other words, we're looking for something not here to tell us something about a murder that may or may not have happened to somebody who didn't give a damn if we lived or died when we were sitting in Ft. Bragg."

"Yeah, that pretty much says it all."

Face had no answer to that. This was going to be a very long day.

*X*X*X*

BA had somehow found himself sitting at General Westman's desk with a stack of papers in front of him. He was looking at them, but he wasn't really seeing them. Face was checking every room in the house for a safe. Hannibal had gone to talk to Elaine; apparently he thought she had more to tell, and that she might be in a more telling mood if they were alone. BA didn't really care where they were or why. He had his own problems to think about.

Alone in the room with the bloodstained carpet and his racing thoughts, it was funny how Westman's death barely made it onto the list of things on BA's mind. He couldn't even concentrate on what he was looking at - not that any of it seemed all that important, anyways. They were random personal documents in the man's - previously locked, before BA had broken it open - filing cabinet. BA had little interest in them. His mind was busy running back over and over his conversation with Hannibal, earlier that day.

_"If I wanted to go back - to wherever the hell it is you think I've been - I wouldn't have come and got you in the first place."_

BA wondered if Hannibal had any idea how much those words stung. He knew, without question, that he would follow Hannibal. The only question was whether Hannibal was willing to lead. If he wasn't, there was simply nothing left.

Face wasn't interested in this team; he was just in it for shits and giggles until something else caught his attention. But BA still didn't have any idea what the hell Hannibal's angle was. He'd been so sure that the colonel would never come back. He had stayed in the same place out of habit, like his body was hoping Hannibal would show, when his head knew better. He'd lived so dead for so long, he wasn't sure what to do with the idea that this sudden and unexpected turn of events might really be happening.

Of course, once Hannibal figured out the kind of person BA was now, all of this happy camaraderie might very well change.

The sound of voices in the hallway drew him back to the present, like it or not. He shook off his thoughts as he finished rustling through the useless papers and set them down. He didn't particularly care who'd murdered Westman. And he didn't particularly care about Hannibal's "need to know." When this was over - when they found Westman's killer and Hannibal remembered how much "safer" it was to be split up - BA already knew he would not be going back. When that day came, it would be the end of his time here on earth. That was all BA knew for certain, and it was all he really cared about.


	12. Chapter Eleven

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

**A/N: Thanks for the encouraging reviews, guys. As I said in my profile, I am trying to post the rest of this series rather quickly. Unfortunately, I'm kinda stranded right now in the hospital with no internet and a sick baby. :( This chunk may be my last post for a few days. But I will be back.**

Elaine was sitting on the deck, overlooking the enormous backyard. Hannibal found her by direction of the house servant who'd taken time out of cooking a meal that was certainly intended to feed all of them to show him the way.

"Am I interrupting?"

She turned abruptly and gave a tight smile as she saw him. "Not at all. Please, join me."

He stepped out onto the balcony with his hands hooked into the pockets of his jeans, pausing only long enough to shut the door behind him.

"Did you find anything useful?" she asked, glancing over at him as he approached slowly.

"Not sure," he answered truthfully. "We really don't know what we're looking for."

Turning to face him, Elaine leaned back against the wooden railing and studied him for a long silent moment. "Then how will you know when you have found it?"

"There's no guarantee that we will." He leaned on the wooden railing beside her, ignoring the slight smile she gave him. "I'm not making any promises, Elaine. We're not the police, and we don't have the kind of resources they do."

"Or the limitations."

He glanced at her and raised a brow.

"They were very quick to rule this a suicide."

"They had no reason to believe it wasn't except for a grieving wife. And nobody ever likes to hear that someone they felt responsible for took their own life."

"You're familiar with that feeling?" she asked curiously.

"Not directly. But it has been a consideration of mine for quite some time."

"Why?"

He hesitated for a long moment. He wasn't about to explain to her what fear and guilt the past sixteen months had brought him. He hadn't been certain, when he'd shown up in Vegas, if he'd find Face alive. He hadn't been sure that BA would show up in that bar - that he could or that he'd _want _to. The way that both of them had dropped everything, neither even going back to their residences to grab their things, told him there had been nothing keeping either of them grounded except for hope that someday, things would change. If either of them had given up that hope before he'd arrived...

"You know, I have to admit this is ironic," he said quietly.

"How so?"

"The last time I heard anything from your husband, it was communicated to me through my lawyer. Who told me that in spite of the fact that we were following orders when we robbed that damn bank, Ross was going to testify _against _us."

She was quiet for a long moment. Her eyes dropped and followed her fingers as slowly slipped over the back of his hand, caressing lightly. "You were his friend, John. When he heard that you were in prison, he didn't even believeit at first."

"So when did the change of heart come about?"

"They were the facts he had."

"What facts?"  
She laughed. "You think he talked to me about that?"

"I think you would've asked."

She was quiet for a long moment, considering him carefully. But he knew what he had said, and he believed it wholeheartedly. She would've asked. He knew she would've asked.

"The orders he received regarding your mission were that you were supposed to kidnap somebody or something," she finally said. "And instead, you robbed a bank. You should've seen the field day that the press had with that story."

Hannibal looked away. "Since when did any soldier give a damn about the press?"

Her eyes lowered away again. "He was confused, John."

"I'm sure he was."

"He wasn't sure what to think about you, and all the evidence said that you were guilty."

"Which makes it all the more ironic that all the police evidence says he killed himself."

"He _didn't _kill himself!" He could hear the frustration in her voice. "Will everybody _please _stop saying that!"

"Whether he did or not, I'm still here," Hannibal said firmly. He turned and looked her straight in the eye. "Just on the off chance that he needs justice."

She came up short for an answer to that. Finally, she bowed her head. "I'm sorry," she said quietly, sincerely. "You're right. It is ironic."

Hannibal looked away. He'd almost been hoping that he would feel somehow vindicated to hear her admit that. Instead, he felt nothing. He grabbed a cigar out of his pocket, and lit it quietly. After a long moment of silence, he finally glanced back at her.

"Why was he so confused?" he asked. "He was the one who authorized the mission to begin with. He _sent _us to Colonel Morrison."

"He never discussed it with me, Hannibal. He never discussed anything about the war with me. Never."

"So how do you know he was so confused?"

She was quiet for a moment, then she took a deep breath. "What I do know is that he'd just found out about you and I."

"He'd known about that for a long time."

"No, John, he didn't."

He studied her quietly for a moment. But everything about her tone and look was sincere. Whether it was true or not, she believed it. And he didn't have any proof positive that she was wrong. But in the end, it didn't matter.

"Well, I'd love to hear the details of that sometime but right now it really doesn't make a damn bit of difference. And it wouldn't have made a difference to him then, either."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because he threw you at me for a reason," Hannibal snapped back at her. He was aware of the impatience in his tone, but he didn't bother suppressing it. "It was no big shock to him that I kept you amused exactly the way he'd intended me to."

Her jaw tightened as her eyes twitched slightly, flinching. Whether at the words or the tone, he wasn't sure. He knew he wasn't telling her anything she didn't already know.

"You're right, you know," she finally snapped back at him. "He never gave a damn about who I loved or why. Ross never shed a tear over _anything _I did. The one and only thing that he said hurt him was the fact that you would stand there and listen to him 'pour his heart out' and not say anything."

"What do you mean?"

"He never cared for me. Ever. I knew that from early on. I was just supposed to be that pretty ornament on his arm."

"You'd be breaking my heart if that wasn't the way you'd _wanted _it."

"But he did care about you," she continued, glaring at him. "He trusted you with his wife's dirty little secret - an illegitimate child that couldn't be his. He told you that and you had every opportunity to come clean. But you didn't. You didn't trust him."

"That child wasn't mine, either."

She paused, blinking at him a few times in frank shock. "What makes you say that?"

He sighed. "Well, for one thing, the math doesn't add up to a time when our paths crossed, either. For another, you've got his picture in a frame in the living room. And his father was dark haired and dark skinned. I'd guess Mexican or Native American." He smiled politely. "Want to take a guess at the probability that two people with blonde hair and blue eyes have a black haired child?"

She stared at him for a moment, then sighed, shaking her head as she looked away. "It doesn't matter."

"No, you're right. It doesn't. So maybe you want to try again."

"I'm telling you the truth!"

"You really think it made one bit of difference to Ross that we were sleeping together?"

"No. What made a difference is that you didn't tell him when he all but asked you."

Hannibal studied her quietly. There were several ways to tell a lie. One of the most foolproof had to do with consistency. A liar would change his story when it became too outlandish. But the story would never change with someone who was telling the truth - even if it was an impossible story to believe.

The frustration was evident in her sigh, and the way she pushed her hand through her hair. "I don't know what would have happened if that damned aide had just kept his mouth shut."

Hannibal's eyes narrowed slightly. "What aide?"

"If Ross had just found out any other time any other way." She didn't even hear him. "Maybe you wouldn't have gone to trial. Maybe someone wouldn't have found a need to kill him. Maybe -"

"Elaine?"

She stopped, and turned to look at him.

"What aide?"

She sighed. "Sullivan. David Sullivan. He was an aide for my husband up to the day he died. He was the one who told him about you - about us."

Hannibal was quiet for a moment. He knew Captain David Sullivan, and he was sure the man knew him. Maybe he would be a better source of information than Elaine, since Ross had clearly not shared details of his work with her.

"Any idea of where I might find David Sullivan?"

"Sure." She shrugged. "He's been to the house plenty of times. If you want to talk to him, he lives just a few blocks away."

That was very convenient. Suspiciously so, in fact. Hannibal tucked that information away for later as the door opened and the woman who'd been cooking stuck her head out. "Dinner is almost ready, Mrs. Westman."

"Thank you Flora, we will be down in a moment." She waited until the woman had left before she spoke again. "You don't think that David had something to do with this, do you?"

"I don't know. Probably not." He paused, chewing on the end of his cigar as he watched the shadows slowly creep over the yard. "Unless he had a motive that I'm not aware of. Either way, I'd like to talk to him."

Hugging her arms around herself, as if she was cold, Elaine suddenly looked old and tired - as old and tired as he felt. She was shrinking in on herself, not able to keep up her well-cultured façade of beauty and bored refinement. Standing there, looking out from her big empty house, for the first time he could remember, she actually looked _real_. Her mask was gone and the person behind it was faded, weary, and scared.

"I never thought it could be someone we know," she said softly. "Just never dawned on me. He's sat at my dinner table before..."

Hannibal let those words hang for a moment before he answered. "Whoever killed him did it in his own home. They didn't take anything of value, and they staged it to look like a suicide. Everything about that says it was something personal, about him. It might have been job related. But even if it's not, whoever did it knew how to get in and out clean."

"What does all of that mean?" she asked quietly.

"It means that it may well be someone you know. I'm not making any assumptions about Sullivan, but it's probably someone you know."

"Hannibal?"

He turned at the voice and saw a concerned look on his lieutenant's face. It wasn't quite as concerned as the one Elaine was wearing, but he always had been better able to hide anything he was feeling.

"I found something in the safe. I think you take a look at this."


	13. Chapter Twelve

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

"It wasn't sealed," Face said as he picked up the folded piece of paper and held it out to Hannibal. "And it was in an envelope that wasn't addressed."

Hannibal took the paper carefully. A step behind him, Elaine was staring at the wall behind the large, hanging photograph of her late husband's parents. "I never knew there was a safe there," she said softly, awed.

Hannibal glanced at the safe, then gave a nod at Face. "Good work, Lieutenant."

Face sighed. "I really wish you'd stop calling me that."

_ Colonel Hannibal Smith,_

_ It is truly uncanny how many times I've attempted to write this letter, each time failing to get past even the most basic greeting. I don't know where to send it, or who to send it to. After all of these years, suddenly I hardly know what to call you. In my mind's eye, I see a young lieutenant - fresh out of West Point and determined to make a name for himself. In the reports that come across my desk I see a rogue colonel, guilty of robbery and treason - of all ungodly things._

Hannibal's attention was on the letter, so completely engrossed that he almost didn't hear BA enter the room. It wasn't until BA said his name that he looked up. "I got a journal here. You oughtta see it."

Face moved to take the journal. Hannibal went back to the letter in his hands.

_ What the hell were you doing in Hanoi? There's a part of me that would love to ask you that - face to face, just to see if you would dare lie to me. When I sent you to Colonel Morrison, I thought I knew you. I didn't know the specifics of your mission; the briefing had come by word of mouth and, I admit, it is my oversight for not requesting a copy of the orders themselves before I sent you. I admit, too, that it was not the first time that such protocol was violated. I knew the orders would ultimately be received; they needed my signature._

He could feel Elaine's presence as she came closer to him, touching his arm lightly as she tried to look around him to see the letter. He considered resisting her, but ultimately decided that it mattered very little. Whatever she knew or didn't know about his relationship with her late husband was meaningless now. And whatever she found out about Hanoi was even less important.

_ You were in Hanoi when I found out about your escapades with my wife. Don't get me wrong; I wasn't completely oblivious. But it was a shock, nonetheless, to consider the fact that you had looked me in the eye and denied it when I had all but asked. I was not angry, but I still fail to understand why, even to this day. Did you not realize I'd put the two of you together - right from the start - for that very reason? She has been a crazy, obsessive pain in my ass from the moment I put that damned ring on her finger. You needed a woman without a commitment. Yet you concealed it as if it were a dark and shameful secret - as if you felt you were betraying me. This is what confuses me, not what you did. This is what makes me feel that I cannot trust you._

"You really did a number on him, Hannibal," Face said. "He's got a good twenty pages in here about trying to figure out if we were guilty or innocent."

"Don't matter," BA growled back. "In the end, he didn't get on no stand to tell 'em we was innocent."

"In the end, he didn't know what to believe." Face flipped through the pages. "Especially after we escaped."

"Why? He had the orders. He shoulda known we wasn't guilty."

_The orders that I received from Morrison - yes, I received them - were that you were to bring back a certain NVA colonel. This, I read just before I receive a report that Colonel Morrison had died in a shelling, and that my very own team whom I have personally endorsed had robbed the Bank of Hanoi! How was I to feel about this? How was I to understand it? _

"The orders Morrison gave him weren't for the bank job," Hannibal said quietly.

"What!" BA cried.

"So it was a setup," Face added. "Just like we thought."

"And Westman played along?" The anger in his voice made it very clear how he felt about finding justice for Westman's murder if that was the case.

"The only facts he had said that we were guilty," Hannibal answered quietly. "He had no choice but to play along."

_ You cannot possibly know the trouble that you have caused. I cannot possibly fathom why you have done this. But in spite of all of this, I am loathe to present those orders to a military court. If I did, I am quite certain they would have you shot. Instead, I go with only a testimony. Perhaps it shall be sufficient to convict you and perhaps not. In either case, it remains heavy on my heart to question why you have thus betrayed me, your men, and your country. _

_ Though you may never read this, I feel that if you do, you will misunderstand me. I do not want to see you spend the rest of your life in a military prison. But I have done all that I can short of perjuring myself to aid you. As I will likely not see you again, I wish you strength and endurance until the end. Someday, perhaps, I will know for a certainty what really happened that day._

_ Sincerely, _

_ Ross Westman_

"He had to have known, Hannibal," Face said as Hannibal put the letter down on the nearby table. "Otherwise, he _would've _brought those fake orders to court. If he really thought we were guilty."

"What he believed about our guilt or innocence doesn't really matter at this point," Hannibal said coldly. "It's water under the bridge."

"He set us up, there ain't no bridge," BA answered.

"He didn't set us up," Face snapped back with a brief glare at BA. "He just didn't come to testify _for _us. Big difference."

"I don't see no difference. The man knew we wasn't guilty."

"No, he didn't. And the orders he had in his possession said we were."  
"That don't matter! He knew we wasn't guilty!"

"Alright, enough!" Hannibal cut them both off with a brief glare. "This changes nothing, understand?"

Face's emotion was instantly buried under a cool, calm exterior. BA's remained simmering in his eyes. Neither of them looked away as Flora stuck her head into the room. "Mrs. Westman, dinner is ready."

"Yes, we'll be right there."

As the three men stared at each other, Hannibal held out his hand for the journal. With some hesitation, BA handed it over to him. "I'll go through this tonight," Hannibal said calmly. "Right now, I think we should go join our hostess for dinner."

A moment of hesitation - a brief consideration of refusal - but then BA turned and headed for the door. Face was a step behind. Neither of them said a word as they left, and Hannibal offered a strained smile to Elaine as he gestured for her to lead in front of him.

*X*X*X*

It had been a very long time since Face had been to a dinner so silent and uncomfortable. Even in his vast wealth of things to say to make small talk, Face had been unable to lighten the mood. Face had never been so glad to be through with a meal.

Hannibal had, not surprisingly, accepted the invitation to stay. Face really hadn't expected him to turn it down, but that didn't mean he liked it. Normally, this was the kind of residence Face would have enjoyed. But right now, he had other things on his mind. Like the amount of danger they were in, for one.

Hannibal was standing on the balcony, on the other side of the open French doors, staring out at the dark lawn that seemed to stretch forever. It was perfectly manicured, bathed in moonlight. Face watched him for a moment before opening up the conversation.

"She certainly doesn't skimp on the decor."

He let his fingers play over the silk curtains hanging around the bed as Hannibal turned only briefly to look at him. "She never did."

Face let the curtains fall and headed out to the balcony beside Hannibal. "Did you spend a lot of time with her?"

Hannibal was quiet for a moment, sipping his drink slowly. "A fair amount."

Face stopped at the sideboard where Hannibal had left the whiskey. Hesitating a moment - why hadn't he brought something with him? A nice red wine, perhaps - he let his hands take over and simply poured the drink. Familiar motions, easy words.

"She seemed comfortable with you."

Hannibal gave a slight, humorless smile. "I don't know if 'comfortable' is the right word. I'm pretty sure any measure of comfortable is just because she's glad to have someone taking her suspicions seriously."

"Could be." Face swirled the whiskey as he turned and headed outside. The ice clinked against the glass. He considered Hannibal a moment. "It's comforting to have a friend support you."

Hannibal cast him a sideways glance as he leaned on the railing. "Something on your mind, Lieutenant?"

Face was being non-confrontational. But Hannibal couldn't stand beating around the bush. Face had known that when he'd come out here. "Just... taking in the lay of the land."

Hannibal turned toward him, leaning sideways on the balcony rail with a smirk on his lips. "And how does it look to you?"

"Confusing."

"How so?"

"You mean besides the obvious?"

"I'm not sure which parts are obvious, at this point."

There were a half-dozen ways to ask what he wanted to know. Face couldn't settle on the best one. Ultimately, he chose the most direct. "Why are we staying here tonight, Hannibal?"

Hannibal paused for a moment. "I see no more appealing alternative. Our information is here, our client is here. And it seems senseless to go elsewhere when she has so graciously offered her space."

Face ignored the smile Hannibal was giving him. "It's dangerous."

"What isn't?"

Face's lips thinned, and he took a sip of whiskey to let the irritation past. God forbid Hannibal Smith be deterred by danger. "What about the MPs?" he asked. "A dead general's house is a pretty big target."

"They don't know that we're here. They're busy looking for us in Las Vegas. Or Chicago."

"Until she contacts them."

"She won't contact them."

"How do you know that?"

"Because she has too much to lose."

Face looked away. "I trust your instincts a lot more when this particular woman is not involved."

Hannibal paused briefly. "You know, Face, I distinctly _didn't _promise you we wouldn't be getting caught by the MPs. If that's your biggest concern right now, you might want to look about someplace a lot further away than Vegas to hide."

Face sighed. He was trying to shift the attention back onto Face. This time, it wasn't going to happen. "We're not going to get to the bottom of this mess by ending up back in the stockade. And I'd rather not end up there for the sake of someone who didn't give a damn whether I lived or died."

"Just to be clear, Face," Hannibal said pointedly, "are you referring to her or me?"

Face met his stare, that cold look in his eyes. For a moment, he said nothing. Then, finally, he answered. "Not you."

Hannibal studied him quietly for a full minute at least. When he finally spoke, his voice was much quieter. "It's not my goal to see you back in jail, Face. But I _am _going to stay here and find out what happened to General Westman. Whatever he did or didn't do to help us in the end, he was a friend of mine. You're not any more obligated to help me than you were to come with me in the first place. It's your choice. It always was."

Face sighed as he studied the liquid in his glass. Hannibal might believe there was no obligation, and maybe there wasn't. But leaving wasn't an option. Not at this point. Not for Face. He finished the last of the drink, then met Hannibal's gaze.

"So do you have a plan?"

Hannibal was quiet for a moment, staring into his glass. "Not yet," he admitted quietly. "But I will by morning."


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

BA wasn't sure what had woken him. A sound? A dream? The temperature in the room? Memories? Whatever it was, it made him entirely alert. Adrenaline flowing, body tense, he forced himself to stay still - staring at the ceiling and listening, trying to assess of it was a real threat or an old one haunting him.

In the darkness, he could hear the whirring sound of the fan, the quiet creaking of the house. And something unexpected... voices. No, just one voice. Quiet. Muffled. He couldn't make it out.

He looked at the clock. Three in the morning. Who was up? More importantly, what were they doing? Maybe it was just paranoia, but there was no way he could even try to fall asleep; he had to know. Moving slowly and quietly, BA stood up and grabbed his weapon from underneath his pillow - right where it belonged. Still dressed from the night before, he made his way out of the room and paused in the hallway to listen.

Silence. Then another muffled sound. Not speech. Sex? His stomach turned at the thought. Oh, man. Hannibal hadn't decided to stay here for _that_ had he? He moved down the hall slowly, towards the sound. At the door to Hannibal's room, he paused. The voices from coming from behind the door where too low, too muffled to make out. He couldn't even tell it was a man or a woman talking. Damn it. The last thing he wanted was to walk in on that. But what if it wasn't? What if the hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end for a reason?

His hand hesitated on the door frame, rare indecision had him questioning himself. Should he knock? Aw, hell, he was just being paranoid. If he was smart, he would turn and walk away. The bed creaked. The muffled sound of a male voice. Hannibal. BA shut his eyes as he let his hand drop to his side, as he tried hard to not paint a mental image of what Hannibal was doing. What the hell did he care what Hannibal was doing in there? What business was it of his? With a deep, silent sigh, he turned away.

The sound of gunshot stopped him dead. Without thought, he was back at the door. The crash and thud from inside the room had him trying the door; locked. He turned and jammed his shoulder into the door so hard the entire frame cracked. A man all in black was straddling Hannibal, hands on his throat.

There was a loud explosion and the man fell forward. Hannibal pushed him off of him, scrambled for something under the bed. His pistol. But there was no need. The man wasn't moving. He would never move again. One shot, one kill. Staring at the scene with complete detachment - almost confusion - BA suddenly realized it was his gun that had just fired.

Face was in the door a moment later - half-dressed and bleary eyed but holding his gun. "What the hell just...?"

He cut off as he saw the body. Hannibal was checking it. There would be no pulse. As Elaine stepped into the room behind Face, she shrieked and turned away, hiding her face. Hannibal stood and gestured to Face. "Get her out of here."

Face turned and guided her out into the hallway. He was back a moment later, just in time to see Hannibal pull the black ski mask off of the well-built, unfamiliar man. "What the hell happened?" Face demanded.

Finally, BA lowered the gun and loosened his grip on it slightly. Over the sound of his heart beating in his ears, he could hear Hannibal and Face talking.

"He surprised me," Hannibal said.

"Who is he? What did he want?"

Hannibal was sweating, his hand running over his forehead as he looked up at them. "The money."

"What? What money? What are you talking about?"

Hannibal's hand went to his throat, rubbing it where the bruise was already forming. He looked for a moment at the man on the floor, then back up at Face and BA. "They want the money. From the Bank of Hanoi."

"How did he know you were here?"

"Sound like someone told 'em," BA heard his own voice growling.

"Maybe, maybe not," Hannibal said. "But either way, we need to move."

***X*X*X***

"I want to know how he found us."

Face was pacing in the motel room. Hannibal's eyes tracked him, but he didn't answer.

"Whoever that guy was, he knew _exactly _where to find you."

"Anybody in that house knew that we were there," Hannibal reminded him. "The groundskeeper, the woman who cooked dinner..."

"So which one of them told this guy?" Face was fixated on that one question. So much so that it was causing him to overlook the bigger picture.

"It may not have been _anyone_," Hannibal said. "Somebody could've been staking out the house for all we know."

"Waiting for what? They couldn't have known we'd come. _We _didn't know we'd come!"

"That's another question altogether. But you can't rule out the possibility without even considering it." Hannibal paused just briefly. "And regardless of how they found out, the fact is that we have more information now because they did."

"We also have a dead body in that house back there!" Face cried, pointing in the general direction they had come.

BA straightened at that, but didn't interrupt.

"_We_ don't," Hannibal corrected. "Elaine does. And she can give the authorities whatever explanation she chooses."

"Right," Face waved his hand. "'A group of criminals who used to work for my possibly murdered husband were sleeping in my house when a masked man broke in and tried to get information from them. So they killed him in self defense. So you see officers, nothing to worry about here.'"

Hannibal almost smiled at the sarcasm that was dripping from Face's voice. He'd missed that, in these past sixteen months.

"Somehow, I don't think that story's going to help our case!"

"I can make a body disappear," BA said simply, from his spot on the other side of the room.

BA's suggestion brought Hannibal's mind back to the situation at hand, and he sighed. They were fixated on the how and why and were missing the _what_! Hannibal was on the verge of exasperated - something he was not used to feeling. Did they not get what had just happened?

"I don't give a good god damn about the body, do you understand?"

They both stopped, turned to him, and stared.

"It doesn't make one bit of difference. There's no chance in hell they're going to pin that murder on Elaine, and there's no chance in hell -"

"I ain't worried 'bout them pinning a murder on Elaine," BA stated, arms folded across his chest. "I'm worried 'bout Elaine pinning a murder on _us_."

"And I would also like to point out," Face continued, "that whoever that was, they not only knew we were there, but they knew _who _we were."

"A valid point," Hannibal granted. "And one worth considering. The other thing worth considering is, who all knows about that money, and who has it. And if the man who attacked me is the same one who pulled the trigger on Westman, there's a very good chance that this _all_ goes back to that bank job."

Face sighed audibly. There was a little less tension in his shoulders as he walked towards the window. "Funny how all roads lead back to that job."

"Was where everything went wrong," BA said flatly.

Propping a hip up on the window ledge, Face seemed as casual as BA was calm. Of course they we both full of shit. Face was pissed at Elaine, and BA was pissed at the universe. But they were hiding it. That would have to be enough for now.

"As for who knows about that money, it could be any one who can read a paper," Face said. "The robbery was no secret."

"Yes." Hannibal paused, finally lighting his cigar. "But who would know that the money wasn't _recovered_?"

BA frowned. "What do you mean?"

"If somebody's looking for it, thinking that General Westman knows where it's hidden, the logical conclusion is that it _is _hidden. It wasn't picked up by our guys."

Hannibal waited quietly for that to process. It was a valid question. The team hadn't even known that the money hadn't been recovered. They had simply assumed that once they had turned over their debriefing, the Army had sent some other team to retrieve it. It shouldn't have been hard; they'd left it buried at the LZ when Murdock hadn't returned to pick them up. They couldn't carry it with them; it was too heavy and bulky.

If the Army hadn't sent someone to retrieve it, it would still be there. And anyone wanting the exact location needed only to look at the debriefing. Anyone going to the lengths of killing people to get their hands on that money had almost certainly already checked where it had been buried. After all, that was all on file. And anyone who knew the money hadn't been recovered had access to those files.  
"They should have recorded the serial numbers of that money somewhere," Face said. "It's pretty easy to tell if any of it shows up. Like how they're looking for D.B. Cooper's money. Of course, they do seem to have a habit of losing the paperwork when it comes to that job."

** "**They lost more than paperwork if that money's not at the LZ," Hannibal said. "So if _we _don't have it, and the Army doesn't have it, who does?"

There was no response from Face or BA. Not that he had expected any. Hannibal let the cigar smoke roll around his mouth as he pondered that question.

"It could have been destroyed," Face finally offered. "With all the bombings and burning, it was damn hard to find anything over there. Landmarks were destroyed all the time."

"They had coordinates," Hannibal answered. "Those didn't change."

"Whoever you told at HQ coulda took the money and then lost the paperwork," BA said.  
"That would've been Westman's aide." Hannibal paused to consider that promising possibility. "Who, incidentally, lives nearby according to Elaine."  
Face's eyes locked on to Hannibal's. "That's' one hell of a coincidence. But even if he took the money, that still doesn't answer who decided to wake you up with a three a.m. interrogation session."  
"I don't know." Hannibal was quiet for a long moment. Staring at the ember on his cigar as he ran through possible scenarios. "But I'd be willing to bet that aide knows something that will point us in the right direction."

BA pushed off of the wall and dropped his hands. His flat eyes going first to Face and then Hannibal. When he spoke, his dead voice said what all of them were thinking. "Then time we go have talk to him."


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

Captain David Sullivan had the look of someone who had made a career of trying to please those who had power, so that he could wield some of that power by proxy - a _sycophant by nature and practice. But right now he_ also had the look of someone who hadn't been sleeping well lately. There were dark circles under his eyes and his pale "never seen the harsh light of day inside my safe little office" complexion had a sickly cast to it. And the way his jacket hung on his frame gave him the appearance of a fat man who had suddenly shrunk. Stress maybe?

Hannibal wanted a nice, quiet meeting. And there was no quieter place than a wooden pew right smack in the middle of an elegant cathedral, midway through Sunday morning mass. The man didn't even look up as Hannibal slid in beside him - at least not until he felt the gun in his ribs.

"Good morning, Captain Sullivan. I suggest you remain very calm."

Sullivan's eyes widened and immediately darted around. Those darting eyes finally figured out he was up shit creek and settled in on Hannibal.

"You..."

He recognized him. A few years hadn't changed him _that _much. And the fear in his eyes was unmistakable.

"Yes, me," Hannibal whispered just loud enough for Sullivan to hear. "Now wanted for treason, robbery - the Bank of Hanoi, I'm sure you've heard about that - and I'm sure there's a few other things they've tacked on since then. No murder yet, and I'm not looking to add that to my rap sheet. So it would probably be in both of our best interest if you just answered some very simple questions for me, as truthfully as you can."

The man's Adam's apple bobbed up and down like a yo-yo as he worked his jaw. Fear had made it hard for him to speak. After a few silent moments, Sullivan gave up trying to talk and just nodded. Hannibal smiled. Excellent.

***X*X*X***

The Catholic church, with its stained glass windows and gold-plated altar, had always been a place of security and comfort for Face. It was structured and predictable, and no matter what state - or even what country - it was in, certain things would always be the same. The same "Road to the Cross" statues or pictures, the same hymns, the same structure to the same service, all over the globe. The same communion, the same robes, the same crucifix, the same choir. And all of the similarities and familiarity had never made him more uncomfortable than it did right now.

Nothing had changed. That, in essence, was what made his skin crawl. In all of the changes he'd gone through - the horrors of war, the degradation of his morals and ideals - everything here was just as it always had been. He went through the motions seamlessly; they were things he'd never forget. In the back of his mind, he wondered if he would still understand the service if it was conducted in Latin. He'd been required to learn it as a boy, but he hadn't even thought of using it in years.

Stand. "The Lord be with you."

Hands out, palms up. "And also with you."

"A reading from the Gospel of Matthew." Mind, lips, and heart. It was so ingrained, he had nothing to think about. But the actions themselves made him think. They made him want to run - to get away from this all-too-familiar place. He didn't belong here anymore. And although he knew that no one else in this room could possibly know that, he was squirming.

He'd come in first, to see if he could find this aide from the photo they'd gotten from Elaine. It seemed the best course of action, since he would be most able to blend in. By the time Hannibal had walked in, about twenty minutes into the service, Face was able to nod to exactly where he needed to go. Luckily, Sullivan was on the outside aisle. Hannibal was able to slip in beside him with minimal disruption.

Face kept one eye on them. The rest of his attention was focused on everything about this place he was trying so hard _not _to focus on. There were ghosts whispering here, in his head. All of the people who would be disappointed, sad, or even angry to know how he'd "turned out" in the end. Too many people had invested too much in him. And he hadn't even thought about them until he'd found himself surrounded in their home, their environment. It was the same home that had once been his.

He shook those thoughts aside and glanced at Hannibal again. He was close to Sullivan and no doubt talking to him. No one around them seemed to notice. As long as they could keep it that way, this should be very easy. Hannibal had questions. Based on the answers to those questions, they would more than likely be taking Sullivan with them. BA was standing by, in a car just outside, to assist with that. It should be quick, quiet, and clean - just the way they wanted it.

Until then, Face went through the motions, trying to ignore the way his skin crawled with every affirmative word and action he committed. These services had always seemed agonizingly long as a child. But they'd never seemed half as long as they did right now.

***X*X*X***

Hannibal didn't know a damned thing about the Catholic church, but he knew well enough how to blend in. He followed those pre-arranged cues the only the devout ever seemed to know were coming as the shuffling of feet told him it was time to stand. But his focus wasn't on the hymnal. He kept the gun tight to Sullivan.

"What do you know about General Westman's death?"

"I... they..." Sullivan kept his voice appropriately low. "They say he committed suicide."

"Do you believe that?"

"I... um... no? But it doesn't matter what I believe."

"It matters to me."

At the far end of the almost empty row, a nun genuflected and slid down a few feet until she was a little too close. But her head was bent and her hands were tightly clasped in prayer. She made no notice of them. Good. Hannibal turned his full attention back to the weasel on his other side as, again on cue, the congregation dropped to its knees.

Hannibal and raised an eyebrow, and Sullivan took the hint as they both dropped to the kneelers. "If I were you, I'd start talking."

"And if I were you, I wouldn't move."

The voice, low and threatening from his other side, cut short any further attempt to solicit an explanation. It was accompanied by the unwelcome - but not unfamiliar - feel of a gun in his ribs. He didn't even have to turn his head to see the habit out of the corner of his eye. Either that nun was no sister, or Catholic nuns were even more hard core then the rumors said.

The same deep, masculine voice whispered, "Hand over the weapon, Smith. Nice and inconspicuous, now."

Well, that confirmed the sister was a mister.

Before Hannibal could react, a man moved in behind the fake sister. With a subtle movement the new player pulled his hand out of his suit pocket just far enough to show a flash of the gun he held. Then he slipped his hand back into that pocket, clear that he had Hannibal covered. Well this was certainly interesting.

Shrugging to himself, Hannibal sat back, slipping his pistol over to the "nun." He kept his hands in plain view as he started a casual conversation. "What can I do for you, gentlemen?"

There was no doubt that Sister-man was a pro. There was no hesitation or need to look as he very discreetly removed Hannibal's backup piece. The guns disappeared into the vast amount of dark fabric like they never existed. It would be interesting to see just how much one could hide under one of those. Not like anyone would look twice.

"Right now, Mr. Smith, I would like you to calmly kneel." With the scrape of metal on wood, and shuffling feet the people moved en mass, dropping the kneelers down.

Hannibal moved to his knees, watching as Sullivan's eyes darted towards the end of the pew, and sister spoke softly to him without even looking away from Hannibal. "Stay where you are Captain Sullivan."

The eyes that stayed on Hannibal, even when addressing the other man, had scar tissue in the corners, just like his own. This was a man who had seen a lot of fights and spent a lifetime taking and giving hits.

"We need to have a talk, Colonel Smith"  
Hannibal grinned. "What would you like to talk about? Seeing as you have me as a bit of a disadvantage, I'll leave the bulk of the conversation to you."  
The priest had blessed the sacraments and divided them up. It was time for communion. Older, well dressed men made their way down the rows, one by one, starting at the front. There was an increase in noise and sound as the rows of people lined up waiting for the body and blood of Christ.

"I'll be asking questions about the Bank of Hanoi and your act of treason, and you will be answering them." Even in a habit and dress, there was no hiding the command in that tone. He wasn't a thug. This man was a leader, and judging by the way his back stayed so very straight, a military one at some point.

"Time to go take communion." The man stood up as he was speaking, indicating to Hannibal and Sullivan to get up and move. Gun hidden in the folds of that very useful habit, he slid out and waited for them to follow.

Two rows formed for communion, very close together in the tight aisle. Sullivan ended up in front of the fake nun, Hannibal beside them and other man ended up behind Hannibal. It was all very convenient if Hannibal did have to say so himself. Silently, they moved slowly forward to the hushed din of, "Body of Christ. Amen." The soft-spoken words murmured through the sound of the hymn playing on the organ.

They were almost to the priest when the nun suddenly and with surprising speed, took Hannibal by the arm and pushed him behind a large statue of the Virgin Mary and right though a door. Sullivan and his cover were suddenly nowhere to be seen. The last Hannibal was able to note, Sullivan was standing in line, unaware of his sudden departure. It had happened, so quickly, quietly and professionally, no one really noticed.  
Hannibal felt a very quick, brief flash of concern. Not fear, really. He had grown past the point of fear somewhere in the jungles of Vietnam. But he was concerned. They had been so quick and efficient at this - would Face and BA even see where they'd gone? And just where in the hell was he being led, anyway?

It looked like a tiny dressing room of sorts - maybe for the priest and altar boys? The nun moved him two quick steps and through a door on the other side of the room. Hannibal frowned as he was shoved through it. There was no way anyone would know this place was here without being shown. The new door led to another, much larger room. Judging by the desk, bookshelves, crucifix, framed photo of the pope and three well used office chairs; this was the office for the priest. However, the man with the assault rifle guarding the door at the far end was not in keeping with the decor.

Fake Nun nodded in greeting. "How we doing?"

The reply was prompt and professional. "All clear."

Without another word the guard opened a door behind the desk and took point, leading them down a dim, windowless hallway that no one on the outside would dream was there.

The end of the hall opened into what Hannibal's mother would have called a "mud room". At one time it had been a back porch, but over the years, it had been enclosed and was now a stop for people to put their coats and shoes. It took him a second to figure out this was the back of the priest house. Apparently, at some point, a clever priest had made the addition of a small passage from the house to the church. Convenient if he were running late or the weather was not cooperating. Too bad that passage wasn't easy to see. Face and BA would have no idea. They would discover it sooner or later, of course, but it wouldn't be until he was long gone.

Rifle Man opened the back door to the mud room and led them out to the private parking for the priest house, neatly hidden from the church by a stone wall. A fourth armed man was waiting. There was a silent nod - wordless communication - and Hannibal was being hurried towards a non-descript white panel van, with no windows in the back. How convenient, it was running. New Guy slid the door opened and watched the area as Rifle Man jumped in, covering Hannibal as he was pushed in by Fake Nun.

The second he hit the inside of the van, Hannibal was being handcuffed by his friend the nun. Man, that habit was like a magician's hat. Wordless commands forced Hannibal to lie down, on his stomach, as his legs were shackled. The door shut with a soft click and the van was moving at a very reasonable speed, not drawing suspicion or notice. From communion to restrained and transported had taken under two minutes. These guys were not just pros; they were damn good pros.

There was no talking for a few moments, then Hannibal felt hands on him, pulling him up to a sitting position. Ass on the floor, back on the side of the van, Hannibal took in his surroundings. Fake Nun had pulled back the habit to reveal a square face with black hair cut short, GI style. Holding his weapon casually, the man spoke with calm efficiency that Hannibal understood all too well.

"We'll have that conversation somewhere we're less likely to be interrupted."

Hannibal had no idea who these men were, or where he was headed. But one thing he did know for certain: he was in this alone for now.


	16. Chapter Fifteen

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

In the orderly chaos of four hundred people entering and exiting pews, and given Face's preoccupation with the twisting, uncomfortable knot in his stomach, it didn't even occur to him that he'd lost sight of Hannibal until he didn't return to his seat. What the hell? He kept his confusion well hidden as he searched through the people who were still filtering back. No sign of him. Had he changed the plan? Left already? That didn't sound like Hannibal. But if the situation called for it...

Face stood, and kept his eyes moving as he slipped quietly to the back of the church. Nobody noticed him. Nobody cared. As he stepped out into the bright sunlight, blinking and shielding his eyes, he fully expected to see BA, Hannibal, and Sullivan in the car waiting for him. When they weren't, he stared for a moment longer in utter confusion. That confusion was cut short as BA pulled the car up in front of him.

"Where's Hannibal?"

Face's eyes were still trying to adjust to the light as he scanned his surroundings. It was empty - nothing moving. Confused, he didn't even think before he answered. "That's a very good question."

BA was out of the car in an instant, leaving it running as he stood and looked over the top of it at Face. "No, fool, that's a very _bad _question! What the hell happened? You was supposed to be watching him."

"I was watching him." Face frowned as he tried to come to terms with the fact that Hannibal was gone. And men who knew too much had already tried to kill him. He hadn't simply gone for a stroll. He was in danger.

"Yeah? Then where he at?"

Face's eyes narrowed at BA as he circled around the car and stepped up closer, making himself into a looming threat.

"You tell me." The overly confrontational action and tone had Face's shoulders back, fists clenched at his sides. "You were watching the door."

BA was closer, into his space, almost nose to nose as he returned the glare. "He didn't come out the door."

"So you say."

"You callin' me a liar?"

Face's eyes were dead cold. He didn't move - not forward or back. For a moment, he was every bit the cold, unfeeling soldier he'd left behind, a half a world away. "You and I can either throw down on the front steps of this church until the cops come to arrest us or we can find out where the hell he went. What's it going to be?"

BA hesitated just a moment, as if deliberating, considering his options. Finally, he took a step back, eyes locked on Face as he folded his arms over his chest. "You got a plan on how we gonna find him, _Lieutenant_."

Face glared at him for a moment, but didn't correct him. If he was asking for a plan, the role he was expecting Face to fulfill was clear. He'd been XO in the jungle. He was more than capable of the same position here.

"If he didn't come out through this door, the only other exit is through the rectory."

Face quickly ran through the possibilities. There had been nobody near him except Sullivan on one side, and a nun on the other. Neither had seemed like much of a threat. But there was a lot that could be hidden inside of those robes. And as Face thought about it, the nun never returned to her seat either. Face stepped around BA as he headed down the steps and around the side of the church towards the other exit.

There were fresh skid marks on the street. Someone had left very quickly. Face hesitated for a long moment as he scanned the pavement for traces of blood. None. His mind was racing. Whoever had come after Hannibal in the middle of the night had done just that - make an offensive move against them. As much as he hated to admit it, they all should have seen it coming that they would try again. But they'd regrouped fast, if that was the case. Faster than any of them had been expecting.

"Are you looking for someone child?" The voice was unexpected. Face and BA turned in unison to see an elder nun with sharp eyes, leaning on a broom and appraising them both.

Face had a smile instantly in place as he took a slight step toward her. "Sister," he greeted with a nod. "Yes, actually. A friend of ours got separated during communion and now we can't seem to find him. Did you happen to notice anyone coming out of this door?"

"An older man, with silver hair, and distinguished bearing?"

The question was calm, almost sweet, but the way those sharp eye's watched Face made it clear she was clever and quick on the uptake. When Face nodded, the sister raised an eyebrow.

"Your friend must have a gift for upsetting people."

Well, that eliminated any doubt that she was talking about Hannibal. "He does, on occasion," Face replied. "But what makes you say that?"

The nun hobbled down the steps until she was standing in front of Face. She was short enough that she had to tilt her head up to look him in the eyes.

"Because three men pushed him into a white van and left rather quickly." She glanced at BA and then back at Face. "And one of those men was dressed as a nun. He was wearing _combat_ boots for heaven's sake."

Face exchanged glances with BA, an unspoken words. Then he looked back at the woman. "Did you happen to notice anything about the van that might help us to find it? Or anything about the men?"

"It was a plain white van, with no windows."

That was not a help. "Anything else?"

"They seemed very good at what they we're doing. They came from the priest office, using his personal entrance. Very few people know about that door."

Face hid his frown. This conversation was leaving him with even more questions. For instance, was Sullivan a victim or an accomplice?

"Was there anyone else? The three guys, one of them dressed as a nun... Was our friend the only one they took?"

"There was another man. A parishioner here, Mr. Sullivan. He scurried away, down the steps and out the back walk." She pointed the stone wall that surrounded the small lot. The disapproval of Sullivan wasn't stated, but it was implied in her pursed lips. "If I know him, he was hurrying home before his lunch got cold."

Face smiled and nodded. "Thank you, sister. You've been very helpful. We really appreciate it."

He took a few steps back before he turned and headed towards the front of the church again, and the car that was parked there.

"Sounds like we're in the same place we were this morning," he said under his breath once he was sure they were out of earshot. "We need to know what Sullivan knows."

BA ground his fist into his hand. "Then let's forget the games an' go ask him."

Face nodded. "Good idea."

***X*X*X***

Hannibal blinked a few times as he came to, slowly working his way through layers of fog and confusion. Where was he? Arms behind him, locked in cuffs. He was sitting upright, in a chair.

"I know it's not the most comfortable. But you and I both know that I have to keep your resources limited."

The voice made him turn, and he blinked a few times in the dim light. It was a cold, gray room - cement walls and two chairs. One, he was sitting in. The shadowed man was standing behind the other, pacing slowly. Some kind of fallout shelter? Hannibal shut his eyes again. His head hurt.

"Where am I?"

There was silence for a moment and even behind his closed eyes, Hannibal could feel the man assessing him.

"Underground. Only one way in or out and the door is rigged from the outside." The controlled calmness to that tone told Hannibal as most as much about the stranger as his words did. "Beyond that door is nothing but traps, emptiness and guards, trained and willing to shoot."

"Good to know."

The words were mere statements, not threats, by the tone. He was "giving" Hannibal information, but not anything more then someone who was very smart would figure it. It was an interesting and clever move. One that led Hannibal to his next question.

"Who are you?"  
He could hear the man straighten some before his words carried in the silent bunker. "Talent, Karl. Sergeant, U.S. Army, retired."

Eyes still closed, Hannibal heard the sound of a pack of cigarettes being opened and a match being struck. Half a second later the smell of tobacco filled the room. It smelled damn good to Hannibal. Good enough that he managed to pry his eyes open

"They called me Red, and not because of my hair."  
** "**Red Talent. RT Peru." Hannibal's voice was scratchy. How long had he been out? He shifted a bit at the discomfort, sorting through old memories. "If I remember right, it had something to do with a gallon of red paint."  
"And a pair of water buffalo." There was a faint mile on Talent's face as he turned away and picked up a canteen from the floor. "Those jar heads are probably still talking about their once in a life time spotting of the rare and previously unheard of "red coated, carnivorous, buffalumpasaurses."

Talent opened the canteen took a small sip and then with great respect for Hannibal's skills, held the cold metal bottle to his lips, letting him have a drink as he added. "It was worth all the time and trouble of find the paint and two cooperative and patient water buffalo, just to see the looks on their faces when they had to pay up on that bet."  
Hannibal took a slow drink, and chuckled quietly. "Alright."

His eyes were finally clear and focused as he looked up again, this time straight at the man in front of him. "So why did you kidnap me?"

Talent stared at him for a moment, then moved out of striking distance. He had been conversational so far, but the look in his eyes made it clear that he was holding back.

"Let me ask you something first, Colonel."

"You have me as a captive audience, quite literally. So be my guest."

Talent took a deep drag then pointed at Hannibal with the hand holding the cigarette. "Why did you do it?"

"Do what?"

"You were a legend. You saved lives, made a difference to the men like me, in the field. You could have had anything, done anything you wanted in the Army. Why did you throw that all away? What was it about that money that made treason okay?"

Hannibal sighed. The headache that was slowly beginning to subside seemed to get worse with the simplicity of that question. "Sergeant, I don't give a damn about money. And I didn't commit treason. I followed orders from my commanding officer and then he conveniently lost those orders."  
"Then why didn't you go to trial? Clear your name, and your men's too?"

"Because like I said." Hannibal opened his eyes slowly and looked up at Talent. "He lost those orders, and the ones he filed were completely different. He set us up, and he did a good job."

"Who set you up?"

"Colonel Morrison, if I had to guess. We didn't have a chance in hell of winning that case."  
Talent stared at him, weighing those words against the word of his superiors. The man had been in SOG, and survived. He knew the military lied when it suited them. They had lied about Laos, Cambodia and God knows what all else. Why not lie about the Bank of Hanoi? Especially when it was the lie of one man, recited over and over by others throughout the ranks.

"If what you're saying is true," Talent finally said, "then we have one hell of a problem, Colonel."  
"Yes, we do." Hannibal's voice was flat. "Because if I'm reading this right, you murdered a four star general and tried to kill me for some money that I haven't the faintest idea where it is."

Talent hesitated. "You're half right."

"Yeah? Which half?"

"We took out Westman. But it wasn't for the money."

"Why, then?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Maybe not to you." Hannibal looked up and held his gaze. "To me, it matters a lot."

Talent stared back. "I need to know where that money is, Colonel."

"I told you, I don't know."

"I'm going to need you to be a little more specific than that."

"I don't know what to tell you."

"Tell me everything you know."

Hannibal sighed and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. "With all due respect, Sergeant, you kidnapped me, tied me up, told me you murdered my commanding officer, and now you're demanding information I don't have." He looked up again slowly, almost lazily. "As far as I'm concerned, you can go fuck yourself."

Talent frowned. "I can see we're going to have some difficulty communicating here."


	17. Chapter Sixteen

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

Face saw the curtains move, just barely, as he knocked on the door. But there was no answer. He stood patiently and listened to the sounds of Captain Sullivan's attempted escape - out the back door and smack into BA. Then he listened to the sound of Sullivan sitting down in the living room, with some assistance from a very angry, very muscular black man. Then the locked turned, the door opened, and BA let him in. Face smiled warmly at the man whose face he didn't know although he was sure their paths had crossed a number of times.

"So, clearly you know why we're here," Face said as he shut the door again. The man had possessed the sense to run, after all. "How about you save us the intimidation tactics and just tell us what you know?"

Sullivan's eyes were wide as saucers and he was gripping the armrests of the chair with white knuckles. "I... I don't know anything!"

"Wrong answer, Jack." BA emphasized his point by gripping Sullivan's shoulder with his giant hand. No doubt that would leave a mark.

"No, really! I... I..."

BA looked up at Face. "You wanna start with his fingers or his knees?"

Face kept his eyes on Sullivan. "I don't think he liked that answer, Captain. You might wanna try again."

"I... I... I don't..."

Sullivan looked like he was going to be sick. Amazing that a man could survive Vietnam - in an active combat zone - and have so little stomach for a simple interrogation. They hadn't even done anything to him yet. Stammering and stuttering and shaking, the man kept trying to speak.

"I don't... I don't know... I've never seen... I don't know them!"

BA moved fast for a man his size. Face saw his hand close over Sullivan's, but the threat and the last chance to talk didn't come. Instead, there was a loud crack as BA snapped the man's pinkie like a dry twig.

Face's reaction was instant and couldn't be hidden. Too stunned to move, he dropped a step back. His lines went out the window - the "good cop/bad cop" and the countdown to "He'll do it; you'd better talk!" All of his attention had suddenly shifted from the man who potentially knew Hannibal's whereabouts to the one who was standing silently over him, looking completely impassive as Sullivan screamed in pain and sobbed.

The sound of a grown man pleading for his life was one that Face had hoped never to hear again. It was one he was completely unprepared for. He'd left that life behind - _far _behind, on the other side of the world. He'd left it in a Vietnamese camp, where torture was the norm. And where BA hadn't been the bad guy. Without warning, the memories came crashing back, confusing and overwhelming against the background of Sullivan's cries.

_ "Do you know what we do to spies?"_

_ "Take them out for tea to discuss you disagreement like civilized adults?" Cruiser was asking for trouble. Somehow, that was a comfort._

_ "You are funny. Does it make you feel better to be funny when you are in a cage made for dogs?"  
"This is a cage for dogs?" Murdock was pushing the limits as well. "Where's your mother at, then? I hear she's a real bitch."_

_ "So ugly they gotta tie a bone 'round her neck just ta get the other dogs to play with her," BA added. _

_ Face shrank back, staying out of it. He knew where this was headed, and that it would only be a matter of time before the penalty came._

Sullivan was still sobbing as BA grabbed him by the collar and gave him a shake. "Ain't playing with you man. Who got Hannibal?"

"The guy! The nun! Talent! The other guy called him Talent! I never seen him before! My God, you gotta believe me!"

"Is Talent the guy who killed Westman?"

Sullivan pulled his arm close to his chest, chocking on his sobs. "I don't know. I never seen him before I don't even know what he looks like! He was dressed as a nun!"

"You better remember something useful, 'fore I lose my patience with you."

"Please!"

Face took another step back. He barely heard the words coming from Sullivan's mouth. Instead, his eyes were fixated on BA. They were all soldiers. That sort of perspective had naturally affected his reaction to the blood on BA's sneakers. Of course the man was capable of taking a life. Hell, Face had seen him do it, dozens of times. But this was different. This was torture, and it wasn't necessary. Sullivan's skin wasn't that thick. It would take more to get him to talk now that he was distracted by the pain than it would've to get it out of him with the threat of pain. But more important than even the end goal, how was BA okay with this? How did he not remember being on the other side of that torture?

_ The sound of BA's scream made Face's blood run cold. The sickening smell of burning flesh and gunpowder made him gag. BA's screams ended in desperate, agonized gasps for air. Each one sounded like a sob, twisted by anger and impotent rage. Face opened his eyes just as the half-conscious man was thrown back into the cage, right on top of Cruiser who couldn't out of the way fast enough. Murdock scrambled towards him, whispering in his ear as he helped Cruiser carefully roll him onto his side. Cruiser took a moment look at the wound, then hand cupped BA's chin in his hand. _

_ "You're gonna be okay. Got it?"_

_ Face shut his eyes as he swooned. BA wasn't okay. None of them were okay. Nothing about this would ever be okay again._

"I don't know anything about what happened to General Westman," Sullivan sobbed, cradling his broken hand to his chest. "Just like I told your friend in the church. But it doesn't matter because nobody cares what I think and there's nothing I can do about it anyways."

"What happened with the bank job?"

For a moment, Sullivan appeared genuinely confused, even through the pain. "Bank job?"

"Yeah, the Bank of Hanoi" Dark eyes burning, BA said each word slowly. "The job that got us labeled traitors."

"What...?" Sullivan was looking frantically back and forth between BA and Face. "What does that have to do with the general's death?"

The confusion wasn't fake, Face could all but smell it rolling off of Sullivan, along with his fear. "We asking the questions. What happened with that damn job?"

Sullivan's eyes remained wide, shifting nervously back and forth. Face took a slow, deep breath, swallowed hard, and finally found his voice.

"That job was the reason why Westman was murdered," he said quietly. "Tell us what you know."

Eyes wide with fear, Sullivan looked back and forth between Face and BA several times before he finally stammered through his explanation as best he could.

"Colonel... Uh... Colonel Morrison made... He made a deal. With the NVA. He told them... They had a bounty on your guys and he told them... He said you'd be there. You were supposed to get... to get caught. You were never supposed to get out of there alive. Never supposed to be... to be arrested. Never supposed to be a trial. And then, um... They were supposed to um... to take the money and split it. 'Cause then... then it would look like... like... like you um... like you robbed the bank and disappeared with the money."

Face stared, trying to process those words. BA needed no such time to process. He growled as he leaned over Sullivan. "What happened to the money?"

Sullivan shrank back into the chair - as far from BA as he could get. "They have it. The NVA has it. They went and got it from the LZ. I don't have it. I don't know where it is!"

"And you knew all of this," Face said quietly. "You were the breakdown in communication. When Hannibal called Westman, you intercepted those calls. The orders - the _real _orders - they disappeared with you."

Sullivan shook his head. There were tears running down his cheeks as he cradled his hurt hand closer to his chest. "Your orders to rob the Bank of Hanoi never came to my desk. The orders I got from Morrison were for the NVA snatch and that's what Westman saw."

"And when Hannibal called to tell him where the money was, so the job could be finished, before we knew you'd set us up. He told _you_."

Sullivan shook with fear, and perhaps regret, sobbing as he lowered his head.

"And you never got that information to Westman," Face continued. "But someone out there thinks you did. And they think Westman knew where the money was."

"I swear I never thought it would matter," Sullivan confessed. "Morrison had it all planned out. Nobody was ever supposed to think the general had any part of it."

BA's hand went around the man's throat as he lifted him out of the chair by his neck. As he flailed and tried to pull BA's hand from his throat, Face's mind was running over and over what he had just heard.

"BA, don't," he finally said, quietly. "If what he's saying is true, he may be the one man who's able to clear us."

There was a second of hesitation, then with a flick of his hand, BA tossed the man back into the chair, sending both of them sprawling. Face watched Sullivan for a moment as the man curled in on himself, shaking and sobbing. After a moment of silence, he finally took a step forward, coming in closer.

"You destroyed our lives," he said flatly. "Not just our careers. Our _lives_. You, and Morrison, and whoever else was in on this little plot, you stole that from us. And whatever part you played in this get rich quick scheme, we paid for it. _Westman_ paid for it. This guy, this 'Talent' who wants the money... He's probably the one who killed Westman. And it should've been you he killed."

Face waited a moment, watching the man cower and sob. Then he took a step back, turned and headed for the door.

"We have to find Hannibal," he continued, even while he was walking away. "But don't go anywhere, Sparky. We'll be back to deal with you. And if you're not here, we'll come find you."


	18. Chapter Seventeen

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

"Why did you kill Westman?"

The question brought Talent up short for a moment. Hannibal watched him as he weighed his options, trying to determine if he would answer or not.

"Westman was a traitor," Talent finally replied.  
Hannibal almost laughed. "Are you kidding?"

"Not at all."

"I don't know what kind of dirt you think you've got on that man. But he was anything but a traitor."  
"Says the man who didn't trust him enough to speak on behalf of him and his team when they were facing courts martial."

"His honesty was precisely _why _I didn't want him testifying. Had he spoken at our trial, he would've given his account as honestly as he knew how. He wouldn't have lied about it, wouldn't have covered it up. And that was exactly the problem, because the information he had - that he would've relayed to the court - was wrong."  
Talent looked at him long and hard. "I appreciate your loyalty to your friends Colonel. But my information differs from your opinion of Westman."

** "**Seems our information differs on a number of topics."

He shifted again and winced at the discomfort. He wasn't going to get this answer right now, and it wasn't like he was pressed for time.

"I don't suppose you'd want to let me out of these handcuffs," he suggested. "It's not like I have anywhere to run."

Talent blinked, almost startled by the suggestion, then let out a dry laugh. With a shake of his head he set pulled his a small set of keys from his pocket. "You always did like the direct approach."

He nodded to a small camera mounted in the top far corner of the cell, by several small ventilation grates. They were too small to crawl through, even if he could reach them. Which he couldn't; they were a good twenty feet up.

"Do us both a favor and don't try anything. Any hint of trouble and my men have orders to fill the room with gas. If that doesn't work, they'll blow the place. And like your team, my men follow orders without hesitation." He was confident enough to not wait for an answer. "Stand up Colonel, and I'll take the cuffs off."  
Hannibal stood, still a little unsteady from whatever they'd drugged him with, and turned to Talent. His head dropped his head forward as he waited for the dizziness to subside and the cuffs to come off. Once they loosened, he pulled his hands in front of him and rubbed his wrists as he sat back down, running back over what he knew so far. In honesty, he had little interest in running away. He'd get all his answers from this man - and he needed those before he went anywhere.

"Who are you working for?"

Talent settled again, watching him. "Working for?" He laughed. "You think we were hired for this? Like hitmen?"

"Everybody's working for someone," Hannibal clarified. "This a spook operation? Army? Or maybe it is in the private sector."

Talent hesitated a moment, then reached again for his cigarettes. Hannibal followed suit, finding his cigar in his pocket. Talent lit his cigarette first, then leaned forward to offer the flame to Hannibal.

"A backdoor deal has been struck with the leadership in Vietnam."

"What kind of deal?"

"They want the money returned. And, equally important, they want a confession."

Hannibal frowned. "What kind of confession?"

"Remember those 'My country is evil and takes advantage of the Vietnamese people' confessions they tried to get you to sign when they took you captive?"

"The ones that were treasonous?"

"Yeah. Pretty much like that."

Hannibal frowned. There was a reason men had died rather than to sign those confessions. Aside from the personal convictions - loyalty and love for country - there were legal ramifications in a military court. Of course, if this confession was being signed by him, that military court already had a hell of a lot stacked against him.

"So they want the money, and a confession, in return for what?"

"In return they have promised to miraculously 'find' thirteen living American POWs."

Hannibal froze.

"POWs held by unofficial and, of course, unsanctioned 'rebel' forces."

Hannibal considered that for a moment. They wanted restitution. They wanted the money and they wanted blood. Specifically, they wanted the blood of the persons responsible for the theft. But there was no way they could know for a fact that "justice" had been carried out. The military was good at feeding lies to whomever it willed. How had all of this gotten so blown out of proportion?

"So what's the problem?" Hannibal asked, eyes narrowed. "The US has that money in spare change. I'm sure they can work out something with the confession. Thirteen American POWs are more than worth negotiations."

"That's the thing. There are no negotiations."

"What do you mean?"

"They want what they want. And, as I said, this is a backdoor deal." He pushed his hand through his hair, leaning forward. Clearly, he was frustrated. "This is all about the same bullshit code of honor and saving face that keeps them fighting. They wantthe money, but more than that they want Americans groveling for how they wronged the people."

"So grovel," Hannibal shot back. "And tell your boss, whoever he may be, to cut them a check."

"They want the same bills, with matching serial numbers."

"Well, they're not going to get that. Nobody's going to keep those stacks of bills lying around. They'd go into a bank. Back into circulation."

"But they're not _in_ circulation, Colonel."

"Then I don't know what to tell you." Hannibal could hear the irritation creeping into his voice. "Last time I saw that money, we left it buried at the LZ, ten clicks from Hanoi."

"Westman sent a team in as soon as he got the report. There was no sign of _any _money at the LZ. And according to the Vietnamese government none of those bills ever surfaced."  
** "**Well, the LZ is exactly where we left it." Hannibal was irritated and it showed in his voice. "We buried it, we drove until we ran out of gas, and then we _walked_ until we were able to ambush a truck that was headed south. And when we got back to Da Nang, we immediately left again to find my missing pilot. Then we gave our briefing on the whole goddamn thing and from that point on, we were with our injured pilot until we were arrested. So when, exactly, do you think we stuffed ten million piastres in our pockets and where would we possibly have hidden them?"  
"Damned if I know. But you have a reputation for pulling off the impossible. And your pilot wasn't able to verify any of that."  
** "**My pilot isn't able to verify his own name." There was a razor sharp edge to his words.  
Talent's eyes dropped to the floor. "No," he admitted quietly. "He wasn't."

Hannibal was quiet for a long moment. Then, finally, he sighed. "Look, Talent. I'll tell you right now, I've done worse things than signing a false confession to get men out of POW camps. And I don't even mind taking their place in jail when that confession lands me in Leavenworth. But I don't _have_ a million dollars. And you can't get blood out of a stone."

Talent hesitated for a long moment, then stood slowly. "If you're willing to sign that confession then I'm more than willing to see if they're willing to negotiate on the money."

Hannibal's jaw was tight. "I don't have a hell of a lot to lose at this point. And I'll be damned if I'm going to risk leaving men in one of those god-forsaken hell holes over some worthless cash and pride."

Talent nodded, and turned to climb the ladder. Halfway up, he paused and looked down at Hannibal. "I'll be back, Colonel."

"You'd be wise to let my men know I'm not harmed," Hannibal said. "They _will _be looking for me."

Talent turned to the camera and flashed a signal of some sort. "Open it up TJ. I got things to do."

*X*X*X*

"You got a plan?"

Face didn't say a word. He hadn't spoken since they'd left Sullivan's house. The drive back to the motel was silent, the walk in was silent, and now that BA had broken the silence, Face couldn't really think of anything he cared to say.

"I said, you got a _plan_, lieutenant?"

"What the hell happened back there?" Face turned to look BA head on as he closed and locked the door.

BA straightened, eyes narrowing, shoulders back. "You got a problem?"

"Yeah, a big one." Face was almost surprised by the aggression in his tone. He'd been so passive and so peaceful for so long, it seemed wrong to hear this tone in his own voice. "Since when did torture become a past time for you?"

BA tossed the key on the dresser and then folded his arms over his chest. "Since he had information that I needed."

Face stared at him. It was really that simple to him. There was not one once of remorse, regret, explanation or caring in those words. It was BA's new reality. He'd brought the cold, unfeeling world of action and reaction, blood-soaked and vicious, back from the jungles of Vietnam. And he'd found new ways of inserting it into his everyday life. It was every bit of what Face had feared would become of _him_, and everything he had worked so hard to avoid. BA hadn't fought it. He'd embraced it, and let it destroy him. And Face wanted absolutely no part of that.

"You could've gotten your information just as easy if not easier with just the threat of violence," Face said coldly. "You just like hearing grown men scream? That get you off now that you're big and bad and in charge?"

Every word out of his own mouth hurt to hear. Everything inside of him was pleading for a denial, for some kind of visual or audible cue that BA took offense to such an insult. That he didn't see himself that way, and that there was some hope, somehow, for them to survive this together. But other than one corner of BA's lip pulling up slightly, there was no reaction. There was just a large, dark, mirrored man, reflecting back an image but lacking anything in substance. What Face had known, what he had dreamed could somehow be rebuilt and reformed into something new and worth living for again, was dead and hopeless.

"Why you care what gets me off?" BA sneered back. There wasn't even an accusation in that, just some distant, unfeeling curiosity. "We got what we could. Now what's the plan?"

Plan? He wanted a plan? A plan for what? What the hell was the point? And why did he even care? If he was so cold and dead and unfeeling, what difference did it make if Hannibal was alive or dead, with them or not? It would never be the way it was. They would never be a coherent unit, a family. Face shivered at that word. It immediately brought up a wealth of emotions and thoughts that he couldn't - wouldn't - acknowledge. His team in Vietnam was as close as he had ever come to that. And he would never have that again. It was probably best to start convincing himself that he didn't want it.

"Fuck you," he said low, eyes narrowed at the man standing in front of him - a man he didn't know, and didn't want to. "Whatever plan I have, I sure as hell don't need you. I'll be damned if I have anything to do with your sick and twisted way of 'helping'."

"You really think you any different then me?" BA's hands dropped, and the only sign that he felt anything at all was they way his hands moved into loose fists. Then again, maybe he didn't feel anything, maybe it was just a reaction to aggression. "Maybe you fooled all them people in Las Vegas into buying your playboy act. But I seen you Face."

Face growled. "You don't know me. Don't even talk like you know me."

Those bottomless eyes fixed on his, little black holes where something, anything should have been. "You fix up all fine and but under it, you just like me. A stone cold killer."

"Yes!" Face was surprised by the sheer volume of his voice. "In a _war_, I killed an enemy. And I was a damn good soldier who killed a _lot_ of them. But that has absolutely jack shit to do with what you just did to a man who was either a civilian or a soldier on _our_ side. So take your pick of which of the two he was."

BA scowled at that. "Ain't no our side. Our side put a bounty on us, say we nothing but criminals."

"Cry me a fucking river," Face shot back.

"Yeah, well, maybe they right." He shrugged his massive shoulders at that. "Means it's us against them. Rest of that right and wrong is just a bunch of shit."

"I don't kill for fun. I don't torture, period."

"Think that makes you good?"

"Good? Who the hell cares if I'm 'good'? It's got nothing to do with that."

"We _all_ wrong, Face. They got Hannibal. That's all that matter. Now how we gettin' him back?"

Face's glare intensified, his tone dropping. "I'm all for getting Hannibal back. But not at the expense of losing any more of who I am. And if that's what I'd have to do to get him back, then you and he can _both_ go to hell."

"Already been to hell." BA just shrugged again. "Don't care what we gotta do. Need to know if you got a plan, or if you gonna let Hannibal rot while you preach me a sermon."

Face's jaw set as he took a step back and reached for the door. "Guess you didn't understand me. Let me make myself a little clearer." He pulled the door open and stepped through it. "Fuck you."

It was the last word he offered before he slammed the door behind him.


	19. Chapter Eighteen

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

For a man with such a reputation of accomplishing the impossible, Hannibal Smith was making remarkably little attempt at escape. Talent wasn't complaining. The cooperation certainly made this whole process much easier. But he couldn't help the hint of wariness he felt at the sight of Hannibal's calm expression as he waited for Talent to climb back down into the cell. Sitting down and leaning back against the far wall, the colonel made no effort to get up. He barely even opened his eyes.

"I hope you have food."

"I do. And," he pulled a can out of his pocket and tossed to over, "a beer." What good was a cheeseburger without a beer?

Hannibal smiled. "Thanks. You know, the last time I was locked up like this, people weren't quite so nice."

The completely reasonable way the man was handling the situation reinforced the gut instinct that told Talent he was on the up and up. Hannibal Smith was more than capable of making an escape attempt, and probably even succeeding. The fact that he didn't try and, more importantly, the fact he was willing to sign a confession when he swore he was under orders to rob that bank spoke volumes to Talent. Smith was willing to risk it all for thirteen unknown men. That was worthy of respect. Period.

Hannibal opened the beer first and took a long drink. "Any word from my team yet?" he asked casually.

"They're not going to find you."

"Oh, don't be so sure about that, Sergeant." He glanced up, his smile growing, but his tone remained casual and friendly. "You strike me as a smart man. Don't underestimate my team. Or how far they'll go to find you if anything should happen to me."

Talent paused for a long moment. Damn it. If he was right, this could turn into an even bigger problem, very quickly. "Them finding you may not be such a good thing, Colonel."

Hannibal raised a brow. "For who? You or me?"

"Either of us. But, more importantly, them."

Hannibal remained silent, watching with quiet expectation for the explanation he knew would come. Something about that calm silence was unnerving. It made Talent restlessly light a cigarette, and begin the same useless pacing he'd been doing most of the morning. Damn it, he didn't want to have this conversation. Every second that went by made this deal sound more and more rotten.

Inhaling a deep lungful of smoke, Talent finally continued. "The terms of the deal have been... clarified."

Hannibal's smile turned more knowing. "Why am I not surprised?"

Talent stared at him for a moment. He really wasn't surprised - not even a little bit. How did he do that? Talent sure as hell had been surprised. That the agreement had been "clarified" was complete bullshit. It had been _changed_. And, oddly enough, it had been changed only when Hannibal's willingness to sign the confession came to light.

"The Vietnamese government wants more than just a confession."

The hairs on the back of Talent's neck stood up as he thought of the condescending tone that had come with his orders - like the man had been explaining the mystery of the alphabet to a mentally retarded child. Talent he been in Vietnam. He'd bled all over it, lost friends and his own innocence over there. And now, somehow, he had the sickening feeling he was being used to screw men who had done the same. And all of this was for some reason that would never be made known to lowly peons like himself. Bureaucratic bullshit.

But, like it or not, he had his orders. And he also had those thirteen POWs on his mind. What sort of hell were they in, anyway?

"What is it they want?" Hannibal asked.

"They went the men responsible, delivered to them and held for trail in Vietnam."

If there was any shock, any anger, any reaction at all, Hannibal didn't show it.

"Which means that if your team does show up, there's a damn good chance they will end up on trial in Vietnam right alongside you."

"It wouldn't be the first time we all stood trial. Hell, wouldn't be the first time we were all prisoners in Vietnam, for that matter."

Talent stared. That was it? That was the only reaction? Just a calm acknowledgment? Hannibal quietly finished the last of his food, tossed the wrappers in the bag, and leaned back on the wall with one knee bent, reclining comfortably.

"Tell me something, Talent."

"What?"

"How'd you get wrapped up in all this? Didn't you get enough of the Agency in the war?"

Talent frowned. "Who said anything about the Agency?"

"This whole thing plays like a spook operation - off the record. The US government can't legally sanction the deportation of American citizens - criminals or not - to stand trial by a foreign government for supposed war crimes that the US hasn't even proven."

Who Talent was working for fell under the category of "need to know." But at one point, Smith had had clearance that rivaled most of the Senate. And even after his arrest and life on the run, not one classified, top secret mission had ever made it past his lips. The man had every reason to talk, to embarrass the hell out of the people who had arrested him and his team. He could've gone to the press and made them his biggest and best defense. Instead, he'd let the military use the media, and they'd used it to crucify him.

There was only one reason for that. Things like loyalty and oath meant something to Hannibal. And if that was the case, any secrets were safe with him. The least he deserved to know was what he was laying down his life for.

"My team and I were pulled out of Vietnam with no notice in June of 1972. Twenty-four hours later, we were standing in LAX, dirt and blood still on our jungles fatigues, goddamned hippies spitting at us, no idea where we were going or what we were doing or even how to get out of the airport. We weren't even given time to contact our families. None of us had any idea what we were doing.

"Then we see this big black guy holding a sign with my name on it. He takes us to this big, shiny black limo. Cleanest damn thing I'd seen in years. We get in and a neat little man in a thousand dollar suit hands me some papers and says, 'You are officially discharged from the US Army. Thank you for your service.' And just like that, me and my guys are unemployed, legally and morally prevented from explaining what sort of jobs we were really qualified for."

Hannibal was watching him quietly. "Honorable discharge?"

Talent hesitated for a long moment. "No."

"On what grounds?"

"Bogus ones. Completely unfounded accusations that..." Talent shook his head. "No way they would've held up in court."

"So why didn't you take them to court?"

"'Cause I wasn't thinking that way." He paused for a long moment. "The same guy, in his next breath, offers me a chance to keep my unit together. Work on covert missions with no red tape and unlimited funding."

"CIA?"

"Oh, hell, Colonel. This guy makes the CIA look like goddamned girl scouts. He doesn't follow any rules. Far as I know, he doesn't report to any agency." He sighed deeply. "But I jumped at the chance. Hell, given what we'd been doing, I didn't figure it was anything I hadn't seen before. I figured out real quick the world had changed when we were off fighting in a non-war that sure as hell looked like a war to me. There was no place left in society for men like me, or my unit. And frankly, we'd all changed too much to ever fit in again. Or even want to."

"So he kept you together, and now he's got you doing things like negotiating with the Vietnamese government and dispensing anybody who gets in your way. Like a four star general who wouldn't tell you where to find the million dollars." There was a bite in Hannibal's tone. "I'll tell you what, Sergeant, that's a hell of a lot closer to treason than I've ever come."

The words stung. Jaw set, Talent shot back, "You sure about that, Colonel? You could have been working for this man in Vietnam. Hell, any one of us could've. Not like we all didn't do things we were forbidden to and ordered to at the same damn time."

Hannibal smiled knowingly. "Like robbing a bank?"

"There's a reason I don't have too much difficulty believing you were set up, Colonel."

"Well, I appreciate that. But you - or your boss, whatever the case may be - lost my cooperation in this matter when you killed General Westman just to draw me out. What I do at this point is for those POWs, nothing more."

"I don't kill people for bait, Colonel. That's _not _how this went down."

"I can tell just by talking to you that you know when you're being lied to," Hannibal said casually. "And you know Westman wasn't lying when he said he didn't know where that money was. So you killed him. Because he was expendable and because you knew that if I caught wind of it - maybe with a little prodding from his grieving wife - I would come. And you figured if he didn't know where the money was, I did."

"No. He was killed because he was _dirty_."

"He was a lot of things. But he wasn't dirty."

"He'd been neck deep in lies and bullshit, not the least of which was the slaughter of an entire village at Linh Hu Nao."

Hannibal raised a brow.

"And I know for a fact that happened," Talent continued, cutting off the protest before it came. "My team had to help bury the goddamned bodies. By the way the fucking spooks were all over that place, making up lies, I knew then it was some kind of fucking cover up."

Hannibal said nothing. Talent took a deep breath as the memories of that village made themselves known. He voice was cold and hard when he spoke again.

"We didn't go to Westman just for the money. He was part of the package deal. And I don't regret it in the least. Because he was dirty as hell."

Hannibal leaned forward, eyes narrowed, voice low. "Let me tell you something, Talent. Westman didn't know a goddamn thing about Linh Hu Nao until after it was over. That was your Agency buddies who set that up."

"How do you know that?"

Hannibal's eyes were as cold and dead as his tone. "That's classified, Sergeant. But I can tell you this. That was an _Agency_ fuck up. Not the Army's. Not Westman's."

"I have from a very reliable source that -"

"What source?" Hannibal interrupted. "Your boss? The one who you just said any one of us may have been working for over there? The one who might have some kind of reason to cover his ass by making up this whole goddamn thing?"

Talent stared. Slowly and with painful clarity, the pieces were falling into place. And he didn't like the picture that was taking form.

"I don't know who you work for," Hannibal continued. "I don't really care. But he sounds like he's got his hand in some things I wouldn't want to be a part of. And whatever he knew about Linh Hu Nao, he sure as hell didn't hear in the briefing. Because if he had, he'd know Westman didn't have a goddamn thing to do with it. He wasn't even _briefed _when he sent his team to go work for the Agency. Because he didn't need to be. And he didn't _want _to know."

Years of training and leading and fighting life or death battles could not keep the stunned look off Talent's face. He stepped back a few paces, glad when he felt the chair brush the back of his legs. He couldn't take his eyes off of Hannibal's. If what he was saying was true, and what he was implying...

"Jesus Christ."

"You killed an innocent man," Hannibal confirmed. "A _good _man. A superior officer on _your_ side. And you did it to get me. So now you have me. And if you want to turn me over to the Vietnamese government, you go right ahead. I _know_ I'll survive. And it's entirely up to you how much blood you want to put on your hands. But if I had to guess, I'd say your boss, whoever the hell he is, is playing you like a cheap fiddle. And when he's done with you, and you know too much, don't think for a minute that he won't dispose of you, too."

Somewhere, the words registered. But he couldn't think about that right now. He couldn't do anything but get up slowly and make his way to the ladder, moving on autopilot. He needed out of here, away from this man and the cold hard truth that he wasn't able to think about in front of anyone.

He didn't look back and he didn't say another word to Smith. It was all he could do to form the words, "Open it up. I'm done."

Then he was free, watching in the security camera as Hannibal settled back against the wall and closed his eyes calmly.


	20. Chapter Nineteen

CHAPTER NINETEEN Face sat on the cement steps of the stairwell up to the second story, watching silently as the cars passed on the darkened street beyond the parking lot. Hannibal was out there somewhere. _If _he was out there somewhere. If he was still alive. No way of knowing that for sure. But that soldier in Face would always operate under the assumption that he was. And even if he wasn't, it made little difference. Even if he wasn't, they needed to recover a body, and lay him to rest.

They had a name. Talent. That could be anyone - first name, last name, or nickname. But it was a starting place. Was it worth pursuing? How would they even go about tracking him down? Combat boots. The nun had mentioned the nun wore combat boots. Given the efficiency, and that simple fact, it was entirely possible that the guy was military. The fact that he seemed to know details about the Hanoi bank job made that an even stronger possibility. There had been several "Talent"s that Face had known in Vietnam. One of them was even SOG. "Red" Talent. If it was him - or if it wasn't - did it change anything? How would they even go about finding him?

The only thing it really meant, if this "Talent" was military, was that they were going to have a hell of a time talking any kind of reason to him. They were the bad guys - wanted for robbery and treason and god-knows-what-else at this point. There was an honor code with every military branch that didn't allow for that sort of thing. Even the CIA had strong feelings about people going AWOL. If Talent, and the men working with him, truly believed that they were serving their country in whatever it was they were doing - even to the point of killing one of their own and kidnapping another - they wouldn't hesitate to do it. Face knew that much from his own military service, and any number of missions that spat in the face of all his moral convictions for the good of God and country. Hell, robbing a bank was the least of the crimes against humanity that he'd committed over in that hell hole.

Face reigned his thoughts in and took a deep breath. He was getting nowhere debating _who _had Hannibal. Maybe the better question was _where _they had him. If this was about the money, if it was sanctioned in any way by any portion of the government, then they'd want to get him into military custody. But what if it wasn't? What if it was in the private sector - some individual who somehow knew about the money? Would it be worth it to stake out the airport? Or even feasible? No, there was no guarantee they'd take him out of the city. Would there be some sort of ransom demand? Maybe Hannibal was already _in _military custody.

Face's thoughts were scattered. There was too little that he knew for sure. Whoever had killed Westman wanted the money, they were former military, and they had Hannibal. Sooner or later, they would discover that Hannibal didn't have the money. At that point, what would they do? Kill him? Ransom him for it? Did they want Hannibal too? Face frowned. The bounty on their heads was nothing compared to the amount of money they'd supposedly stolen. There was really no reason to keep him alive if he didn't know where it was.

There was nothing Face could do about that. His hands were tied by lack of information. Whether they wanted Hannibal dead or alive, whether they cared anything for _anyone _in this scenario, they wanted that cash. That was all he knew for sure. He couldn't know anything more until he gained an audience with them. Then, hopefully, there would be some way to get Hannibal out of the line of fire.

Face leaned forward, holding his head in his hands. He didn't have a clue in hell where that money was. But they didn't know that. If he, and not Hannibal, had that money, there was at least some chance they would let Hannibal live. It was no guarantee - hell, the whole plan lacked substance. It really couldn't even qualify as a plan. But it was better than doing nothing. One way or another, getting Hannibal out of danger meant stepping into the furnace with him or, if he was lucky, in place of him.

Face was surprised to find that he felt nothing about that.

The question then became where he was going to find a million dollars. He had access to about seven hundred thousand. Beyond that, he knew of plenty of ways to get money, but it would take time. There were very few people he could call for a loan, and even fewer who had that kind of money on short. Except one. He let his hands fall as he looked up and stared for a long moment at the pay phone. Then, finally, he stood, took a deep breath, and crossed over to it with his hands buried in his pockets.

*X*X*X*

"Templeton?" Samantha chuckled as she heard his voice. "What's the matter? You sound like death warmed over."

"Gee, thanks." He forced a smile. "I suppose I should be flattered."

"Well, flattery was never much my specialty. It was yours."

Face closed his eyes as he leaned forward against the wall, cradling the pay phone against his ear. Somehow, the familiarity of her voice was comforting. Even though he knew she could never understand him, even though she had never really known him at all - just the shell of the person he'd shown her - she was the closest thing he had right now to something familiar.

He put that thought out of his mind as he took in a deep breath, and remembered why he was calling. "If I flattered you right now, would it get me on your good side?"

She laughed. "Why do you need to be on my good side?"

"Because I'm in some trouble. And I have a favor to ask."

For a long moment, she said nothing. She probably didn't know how to react to the thought of him asking for a favor. He'd never done so before, and never even presented it as a possibility. Self-sufficient and superficial, with no needs or interests... how could it be that he was in "trouble" now?

"What kind of trouble?"

"Gambling trouble."

"You?" She laughed. "Are you kidding?"

"No."

She hesitated at the seriousness in his tone. Again, she was speechless. He shut his eyes, resting his forehead against his arm as he waited for her to find words.

"How much do you need?"

"It's a lot," he said quietly, trying to prepare her. "I would pay you back. And not with gambling money, either, because I've learned my lesson. But it -"

"Templeton," she cut him off, "how much?"

"Three hundred thousand."

"Jesus Christ!"

"I know."

"What did you...? How...?"

"It's a long story. I can't explain it right now."

She was quiet for a long moment.

Finally, he took a deep breath. "Can you help me or not?" he asked quietly.

"I can, but it's going to take me some time."

"How long?"

"At least 24 hours. What kind of time limit are you looking at?"

"I don't know. But I'll try and stall them." He paused for a long moment, then took in a slow, deep breath. "Thank you, Samantha. You're saving my life."

She hesitated before finally responding. "I'm just glad I can help. And I hope by the time I can get the money to you, you'll still have a life to save."

***X*X*X***

BA was pacing. He didn't want to be pacing, but he didn't really know what else to do. Where was he supposed to go? He was no good at coming up with plans; never had been. That was Hannibal's job. And without Hannibal, it was anybody's job but his. Face should know that. Face should _care _about that. But he didn't.

Maybe he was right. Maybe it was over. Maybe it was time for all of them to just lay down and die. BA was damn sure he wasn't going back to Chicago. And if Hannibal was gone - or dead - there didn't seem to be much left for him here either. Face had walked out on him - just one more thing that didn't matter. Except, somehow, it did. When that door had slammed, he'd felt something beyond the anger and coldness he'd expected to feel. He had felt something that was closer to panic.

But that was gone now. He'd pushed through it. Whatever friendship he and Face had was as dead as the men they had been, just another causality of war. Maybe it was wrong that he didn't feel anything about that - that it took him so little time to get over the loss of the only thing he really had left in this world. But that was just the way it was. He couldn't change it. Why mourn it?

Of course, there was an answer to that question. A resounding answer that made BA's jaw tighten and made him stand up straighter. Hannibal. Hannibal was the reason why. Whoever the hell Face was now, whatever he wanted or didn't want, cared about or didn't, whatever he meant or didn't mean to BA. He _would _go after Hannibal. No matter who this new Face was, there was no doubt in BA's mind that he would have a plan. More than that, he'd find Hannibal - dead or alive. And when he did, BA would follow. There wasn't anything else to do.

In fact, Face hadn't even gone very far. BA watched from the hotel window as he sat on the steps, staring at nothing. Face's way of dealing with the crap life threw at him hadn't changed at least. He always shut people out, pushed them away, faced his demons all alone. Maybe that was just one more reason why it was better this way. Face didn't want him around, and he didn't care much for that fake, pretty playboy Face had become. As far as BA was concerned, he could keep all that stuff to himself. Hopefully, it would keep him company while he sat out there all alone.

And thought of a way to rescue Hannibal.

He'd better be thinking of a way. BA's fists tightened at his sides as he considered the possibility - it wasn't really a possibility - that maybe he wasn't. He pushed that thought to the back of his mind. Face wouldn't do that. He might have turned into a spineless, pompous brat while he was off doing whatever he did. But he wouldn't leave Hannibal out to dry like that. If that was something Face was capable of, why would he even be here in the first place?

BA stopped pacing to look out the window, checking on him once again. He wasn't here. Standing up straighter, BA looked around. Had he left? BA's eyes shifted to the keys on the dresser. If he had, he couldn't have gone far. Looking back outside, he found Face standing in the parking lot, waiting patiently as a cab pulled up. He must have called for it from the pay phone while BA was busy pacing.

BA had the keys in his hand and was out the door just as the cab pulled away. He was in the car a moment later. Wherever Face was going, damned if he was going alone.


	21. Chapter Twenty

**CHAPTER TWENTY**

"I have one million dollars that I stole from the Bank of Hanoi. I'm wanted for robbery and treason and I'm turning myself in."

It was not the first time Face had rehearsed those lines. He had been spreading that message as far and wide as he could - including to the cab driver. The story was legitimized by the MPs who'd surrounded the car as soon as he announced his intentions at the front gate. The cabbie would probably make sure it got to the press. If not, perhaps the hotel clerk or the gas station attendant from whom he'd bought the pack of cigarettes would make it known.

The colonel seated on the other side of the desk clearly did not know what to think of the man standing in front of him. "You are aware that these are very serious charges, Lieutenant."

It wasn't really a question. At least, not one that needed to be answered. Face smiled as he answered anyway. "I know robbery and treason are very serious charges, yes."

"And you say you have this money?"

"Yes."

"Where is it?"

Face lowered his eyes for a moment, then looked back up, not speaking.

The colonel glared at him. "What the hell kind of game is this? Who are you?"

Face shrugged. "Check my fingerprints against your files. I already told you. I'm Lieutenant Templeton Peck. And if you'd be so kind as to arrest me and give Colonel Lynch a call, I'm sure he'd be much obliged."

Face was counting on the publicity to follow him. He was furthermore counting on the ingenuity of the men who'd taken Hannibal to find some way inside this base to talk to him. If he was wrong, and it turned out that they didn't come, he would be on his way to Leavenworth without much hope of a rescue for Hannibal. As sad as that would be, he was prepared to face it. He knew one thing for damn sure; he wouldn't make it to Leavenworth. There were any number of commonplace objects that would grant him suicide when he wanted it.

If he was right, they would come for the money. He would tell them where to find it, and they would take it. All he'd really have would be a handshake to ensure they would let Hannibal go. If they didn't, it was over. His end was still the same. Hannibal had a one in a million shot of surviving this. Face didn't even have that much.

"Take him down to holding and put a rush on those prints," the officer behind the desk ordered. "And find out how to get ahold of this Colonel Lynch."

"Yes, sir."

Face stood still and silent as the older man walked around the desk and looked him straight in the eye, studying him as if trying to figure him out. "Not sure I understand you, boy. But you're either very smart or very stupid, one of the two."

"Neither," Face answered flatly, honestly. "Just very much tired of running, sir."

The man studied him for a moment longer, then nodded to the two MP sergeants beside him. "Get him out of here."

Face smiled to himself, embracing the sense of relief that came with knowing it was almost over.

***X*X*X***

BA wasn't entirely sure where he expected Face was going when he got into that cab. The only thing he'd known for sure was his need to follow. The shock - and, in some sense, panic - of seeing him pull right up to the gate of the nearest Army base and wait for the MPs to drag him out of the car and cuff him, was something BA had not been prepared for. Processing that would have taken some time. Surely, it would have taken more time than he had, in the end, since it was only a few minutes later that his _own_ car was surrounded.

He'd had no time to react, although he probably could've just run them right over and gotten away. Either that, or he would've been shot. But what was the difference really? The metal cuffs on his wrists were just another way of telling him what he already knew. This was not part of any plan. At least, not any that would have a good outcome. They were spiraling down, and there was nothing at the end to catch them.

He didn't say a word. They knew who he was. They'd moved to high alert when Face had shown up. He didn't need to give name, rank, and serial number to be identified as another member of "that rogue team of traitors." The name of Hannibal Smith was a curse word, and looks of contempt were mixed with ones of confusion. It hadn't taken long for people to hear about their presence here. Nobody could quite figure out why they'd simply walked into custody after running for so long.

Jaw clenched, BA let their questions and insults - both spoken and unspoken - roll off his back. He didn't give a damn about anything they had to say. There was only one person he cared to talk to. One person who had to know what they were doing here, who had to have a plan. Face was a lot of things, but he wasn't stupid. He _would _have a plan. He wouldn't have let himself get arrested if he didn't.

The base had only one holding cell. Face was already in it. He looked startled when they threw BA in beside him, but he didn't get up. The shock turned to something else - something passive and quiet and unfeeling, and Face looked away as the MPs left.

The image, and the sudden _knowing _that this was not all under control, hit BA hard. There was Face, who was supposed to have a plan, leaning up against the bars, all by himself, locked up with that faraway look in his eyes. More emotion than BA had felt in all of the past year combined came crashing down around him. Without wanting to, without warning, BA suddenly found himself realizing, remembering what it was to be a prisoner. They had done this before. Prison was nothing new and only scary in so much as it was a waiting game. How long would they have to survive and remain strong before the opportunity for escape presented itself? But Face was not looking for an opportunity. That look in his eyes was empty and soulless. And BA wasn't prepared for the sudden, blinding realization that they were going to die in a cage after all. And they were going to die alone.

Pushing himself to his feet, BA was moving toward Face. Claustrophobia and echoes of old terror were barely held at bay as he growled down at a shared past and shame. Was this all it really came down to? He couldn't accept that. He couldn't just lay down and die.

"What's the plan, Face?"

It was a demand - the same one he had made in the motel. The same one he hadn't gotten an answer for. And somehow, he knew he wouldn't get an answer this time either. But he asked anyway. He had followed Hannibal out of the hell of Southeast Asian, then out of the very different hell of Chicago. Was it all for nothing? Just to die here alone in another goddamn cell?

Face looked at him with empty eyes, then stepped around him. He walked to the bunk, lay down, and faced the wall with his back to BA, saying nothing.

The tightness in BA's chest was almost panic. He could feel his heart pounding, blood rushing in his ears as he clenched his hands to keep them from shaking. "You gonna lay here and die alone Face? You gonna let Hannibal die alone too? That your plan?"

There was no response. The man lying on that cot looked like little more than a boy, alone and broken and scared. Like a movie, BA's mind played out snapshots and scenes of all that had happened since Charlie had changed them all. His hands and feet were tingling as it grew harder and harder to breathe. There was no way that all they had seen and done and been in all that time led them right back to this.

He was ready to die. He wanted to, even. Living had become a bad habit he couldn't kick. But it wasn't until he saw that look, that he figured it out his true fear. They weren't going to do this together. They were all going to die alone. Hannibal was gone, and Face was, too. He was here, in the cell, but he was gone. And BA was right back to the nothing he had become. No one saw it, and no one cared.

"You shouldn't be here," Face said quietly.

"Fuck you!" The anger came with such force, it brought with it flashes of blood and violence that BA had not thought himself capable of. Not against Face. Not against someone who should mean so much to him. He could barely contain it, hands shaking at his sides. "I got nowhere else to be, damn it!"

Suddenly, he was grabbing the cot Face was lying on, turning it upside down, dumping him on the floor. "It ain't gonna be like that!" he yelled down at Face. "No one left behind!"

The sound of the metal cot frame hitting the other end of the cell was the only reason he was aware he had thrown it. Face looked up at him, sitting up and putting his back to the wall, knees pulled up close to his chest. His voice was quiet, calm and passive. "It's over, BA. And you shouldn't be here."

He grabbed Face by his collar, pulling him up to eye level, shaking him hard. "I should be dead, but I ain't! So where the hell else am I supposed to be?"

Face was like a rag doll. He made no effort to defend himself - or even to keep his head from bouncing back and forth. When BA stopped shaking him, he simply stared back, saying nothing for a long moment. Finally, he sighed. "I wouldn't have cared where you went," he said quietly, emotionlessly. "But now that you're here, you don't have much of a choice."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean!"

He was so damn tired of being alone. He'd had a taste, a hint of what it was like to be real again. Just a flicker of meaning when he'd seen his team waiting for him in that bar. When he knew they'd come all the way to Chicago to find him. He hadn't been able to feel it, but just _knowing _it in his mind gave him a reason to go on. And now it was gone; it was all just another cruel joke. It didn't matter that he had no right to mourn. He didn't give a shit about what was fair and what was right. Just like when he was nine and standing at his daddy's grave, screaming at the sky, "Don't you leave me!" Irrational, childish, and selfish... but it was the only real feeling he'd felt in so long.

"If all they want is the money, Hannibal will get out of this," Face said. "If I'm wrong, and they want more, they'll probably kill him. Either way, I'm not getting out of this alive. And now, neither are you."

Alive? The futility of that word - that entire concept, hit BA with the force of a cannon blast. He was still holding the shell that was once a man who had given so much for so little. And it was then that he realized, he was worse than nothing. Face had been right. He was just like Charlie, and maybe worse. He didn't give a damn about anything when he killed. Images and smells and memories he had kept far away all opened up. That dark empty thing that used to be his soul was suddenly full of festering, gaping wounds that would never heal. And those empty, blue eyes looking at him, they were windows into a soul that was just as bloody and broken.

Face hadn't been living the high life, laughing and playing while BA became a monster. He had the same damn disease, just different symptoms. BA didn't know what he'd been doing, and he didn't give a damn. Nothing mattered anymore. Nothing but the cold emptiness, and the wait for death that seemed never-ending.

His hands let go, reflexively, as if burned. He could hear the MPs coming, the rattling of the key in the lock. But there was no doubt in BA's mind anymore. It was over, and there had never been a reason to fight or try and survive. They had all died in that jungle. They were just too stupid, too stubborn and too broken to figure it out. All that his stolen time in the world had done was stain his hands and soul with a blood that could never be washed away.

He heard himself speaking the next words, low. They weren't for the Army or the MPs. They were for the men who had been there, only. They were for Face. "None of us got out alive."

Face watched, passive and silent as the MPs pushed BA to the ground, cuffing and shackling him. BA didn't struggle. His eyes remained on Face, watching the last little bits of him give up and die. The MPs put the cell back in order and yelled their threats. BA sat against the wall. Face lay down again on the cot, faced the wall, and curled into a ball. And as BA's eyes slid closed, burning with unshed tears, the only thought he had that offered any vague sense of comfort was knowing that he wasn't going to be breathing long enough to have to deal with all the things he'd done.


	22. Chapter Twenty One

**CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE**

"You lied to me."

The man in the formal business suit looked up from the table at the small cafe and raised a brow calmly, waiting for Talent to expound upon his accusation.

"Westman wasn't dirty. You wanted him dead because you knew that's what it would take to get Hannibal Smith to respond."

Taking a cue from Hannibal and repeating the accusations he had heard was turning out to be very telling. The man hid his smile - the smirk of a very bad liar - and diverted his eyes. "Please, sit."

"I didn't come here to drink coffee with you," Talent shot. "You chose this location. I came for answers."

"I told you no lies," the man said calmly, sipping from his own cup. "How you chose to interpret my words is your own business."

"He wasn't responsible for that massacre. And I'd be willing to bet he wasn't responsible for any number of the other things you attributed to him."

"That, Sergeant, is a judgment call. How far does the arm of responsibility stretch?"

Talent growled. "He didn't give the order."

"But he sent the men. And that, I could show you on paper if you feel the need to clear your conscience."

"The man had a war to run. He sent men to a lot of places. That doesn't mean he's guilty of war crimes."

"And it doesn't mean he's not." The calm, impassive expression was infuriating. Talent could follow this logic; he knew how this conversation would end. And he hated it more now than he ever had before. "Why are you pursuing this line of thinking - one started in you by the enemy, no less - when you know no good can come of it."

"You murdered an innocent man."

"No, Mr. Talent, I did no such thing. _You _murdered a man whose innocence is very questionable."

"On your orders."

"And my orders still stand." The man stood, and neatly folded the newspaper he'd been reading, leaving it beside his empty mug. "You will carry them out, or you will find yourself another employer. And I warn you against the latter, Mr. Talent. There are things in your past that could work to your detriment if you choose not to do things my way."

Fuming, but powerless, Talent stood with his jaw clenched as the older man clapped a hand over his shoulder. He walked past, and away. Talent didn't turn as he heard him call over his shoulder his final words of instruction. "Get me Peck and Baracus as well. I hear they've been arrested. It should be fairly easy for you at this point."

Talent stood still, staring after him for a long moment. "They've been _what_?"

*X*X*X*

The young man who stepped into the room - escorted on either side by armed MPs and handcuffed to boot - was familiar by face, name, and reputation, in spite of the fact that Talent had never actually met him. As he sat down on the other side of the metal table, his eyes remained dead cold, face expressionless. Finally, once the guards turned and exited the room, Lieutenant Templeton Peck spoke. "Who are you?"

The kid looked like a fucking choir boy and had the mouth, reputation and skills of a mad dog, hard core, SOG bastard. At any other time, Talent would have taken a moment to reconcile the image to the man. But the strain, confusion, and frustration of this whole goddamned situation had him lacking in the patience department.

"I have your colonel."

Peck nodded slowly, but remained expressionless. "I was hoping I'd have the opportunity to speak with you."

Talent frowned. The monotone, emotionless response was not what he'd been hoping for. Had they medicated him to restrain him?

"There were easier ways to do it than getting yourself thrown in the stockade," Talent said, watching carefully for the reaction.

"Maybe, but I couldn't think of any. Do you have a cigarette?"

Talent hesitated for a long moment, then passed his pack across the table. The kid withdrew one, set it between his lips with shackled hands, and waited for Talent to lean forward with a light. As he settled back again, he took a deep drag and let it out slowly.

"I thought it might take longer for you to respond," Peck said quietly. "Lynch isn't even here yet."

"You thought wrong." The fact that his words were quiet negated some of the bluntness. But amusement had long ago left him. Right around the time Talent had figured out how badly entwined he was in this mess, and how much he didn't want to be.

He glanced around the room. It was small room, for private meetings. There should be no bugs, but he stood and did a quick sweep just in case. He could add feeling paranoid to the list of crappy things going on in his life at the moment. When he was sure no one was listening he sat back down and looked at Peck.

"There was a back door deal with the Vietnamese government. We returned the money you stole from the Bank of Hanoi, obtained a confession and apology from you three, and in return we were to get thirteen American POWs back."

Peck blinked slowly. His expression didn't change. After a moment of silence, he finally spoke - low and flat. "Where is Hannibal?"

"He's not the one you need to worry about."

Peck took another drag and looked away.

"Since you Baracus got yourself caught by the MPs of all goddamned things, you've tied my hands. I might have been able to work a way out of this for you three when there was no one outside my team involved. But now the whole fucking Army is neck deep in this shit. What the hell were you thinking?"

Peck had no reaction whatsoever - not to the words or to the frustrated tone. His eyes remained cold and empty as he answered, without feeling. "If you want your money, I want to see him."

Talent blinked, startled. "What?"

"I said if you want the money we stole from the Bank of Hanoi, I want to see him."

Talent stared. That was nothing short of an admission of guilt. If the kid was saying he had the money, either he or Smith was full of shit. The pounding headache brewing behind his eye was enough to make Talent put his head in his hand. How fucking ironic was it that just when he had convinced himself that Smith was worth the risk, that he was willing to risk it all help him out and still try and get those POWs, his plans had been shot to hell by some ill-conceived attempt at loyalty?

Talent lit his own cigarette and took a deep drag, shaking his head. Unbelievable. "Do me a favor? Don't tell me that's some kind of confession, huh? Please?"

"It's not a confession; it's a statement of fact. If you want the money stolen from the Bank of Hanoi, you will bring Hannibal here."

"Stop."

"Actually, don't bring him here."

"Lieutenant, stop."

"Save us all a step. Just let him go. And BA. They don't know where the money is. They don't know that I have it. And they have nothing to do with this."

"God damn it!" Talent jumped up so fast the heavy metal chair hit the concrete floor with a loud clatter that nearly drowned out his shout. Peck didn't flinch.

"What the hell is the matter with you? Do you have any idea what kind of trouble you're in?"

Peck said nothing. Unmoved by the outburst and unmoved by the resolution, he simply sat still and stared at the same spot on the wall he'd been watching since he sat down.

"I don't know what kind of power you think I have, but I can't just wave my magic wand and make this all go away, damn it! You're in a hell of a lot of trouble right now that I can't get you out of!"

Peck looked up slowly and met Talent's stare. His eyes were so dead and cold, it brought Talent up short. "I don't want you to get me out," Peck said flatly. "And if it comes down to it, BA made his choice too. But let Hannibal go. That's all I'm asking you to do."

Talent growled. "Don't you get it? It's more complicated than that."

Peck drew his eyes away, staring again at the spot on the wall as he inhaled deeply from his cigarette one last time, then crushed it out on the metal table.

"The money is in a Swiss account," he said coldly. "I'll give you the number and you can call to check on it. It's all there."

"You were arrested and hauled out of Vietnam," Talent reminded him. "There was no time to get the money out of the LZ. Hannibal said you buried it. So just how did you get the money out of VN and into a Swiss account?"

He didn't. Somehow, in his gut - that feeling that was almost never wrong - Talent knew this was bullshit. If there was money in a Swiss account somewhere, it wasn't the money from the Bank of Hanoi.

Peck was staring at the floor, blankly. There was no inflection whatsoever to his voice as he answered smoothly. "When we escaped from Fort Bragg, we went to New York City. From there, we split up. The first place I went was Vietnam. I got in, I moved the money, and I got out."

The kid didn't flinch, but Talent did. The mere thought of going back to Vietnam was enough to make his stomach turn. Not for a million dollars; not for a _hundred _million. No soldier who'd survived that place let his thoughts wander there, let alone his body. The lie was perfectly rehearsed, but Talent wasn't buying it.

"I've been back four times since. Each time, I've gone from there to Europe and deposited the money in small increments - different currencies. You can follow the paper trail if you'd like. But I'll warn you, it will take several months. And as I understand it, there's thirteen POWs on the line."

He could've been a robot. Or an emotionless recording. Each word was measured and slow and without feeling. Why was he lying? Talent found himself staring, confused, trying to figure out what the hell he was really trying to do. It wasn't just a selfless act. He wasn't throwing himself on a hand grenade because there were no other options. There _were_. But he hadn't even looked at them.

"I don't know why you're doing this, but I'll say it again. It's not that simple. Even if you have the money, that's only part of it."

"What's the complication?"

"The terms of this agreement includes you and your teammates being sent to Vietnam to face trial. You will be found guilty. You will be executed."

Peck's eyes closed slowly. "My teammates knew nothing. I did this alone. And if the terms of the agreement are to take me back to Vietnam, I won't fight you. I'll go willingly."

It was the combination of the emotionless voice, the false confession and the willingness to sign his own death warrant that made Talent finally understand the reasoning here. "Jesus Christ, kid, you really are looking to die, aren't you?"

Peck didn't respond, just reached for another cigarette and chained it from his last one.

"What's the account number?"

"0125 3446 8902 0346."

"And what am I supposed to tell Colonel Smith?"

There was no response to that. Talent felt the weight of the deafening silence, waiting for an answer, an explanation, that he knew wasn't coming. Taking a deep breath, he finally moved towards the door and rang for the guard. "Just do me a favor and don't say a word to anyone until I get back. Got it?"

Peck didn't get an answer. But there was something in that resigned posture and attitude that had Talent's mind lingering back in Southeast Asia - on all the kids on both sides with that same nothing look in their eyes, just marking time until they died. Talent had hated the look in Vietnam. He hated seeing it now. He was glad when the guard opened the door, and he could escape the little room that was so empty and cold.


	23. Chapter Twenty Two

**CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO**

"He said _what_!"

In the past four days, Hannibal had been kidnapped, held in an underground cell, and dragged handcuffed to an Army base as a military prisoner. Things were not going well. But nothing could have prepared him for the revelation that Face had just promised the money they took from Vietnam.

"He is lying! Is he out of his mind?" Hannibal's anger was palpable. "He would never have gone back to Vietnam for that money. You couldn't have paid us enough to go back to that god-forsaken place!"

Talent was beginning to feel tired - simply exhausted with the whole damn thing. "What is it you want me to _do_, Smith? One way or another, I have to write up a report at the end of all this. One way or another, I have to produce this money that he wants to give me."

"It's _bullshit_!"

"I know that," Talent snapped back. "You think I don't know that? But what am I supposed to do. What would _you _do?"

Hannibal turned and paced away. For just a brief second, he entertained the idea that maybe this was some plan they had come up with. Things could still be fixed. He hadn't really fucked up his command and his men so badly that two of them were trying to die and one was trying to run from the screaming demons in his head. Maybe he hadn't cost the men he cared about everything.

"They got the military police involved now. I can't just waltz onto the base and then back out with the two of them in tow! My superiors will move to get them out if it means you're all going on a one way trip to Vietnam. Which is, incidentally, what your lieutenant seems to _want_!"

Hannibal voice was ice cold and hard as steel. "What my lieutenant wants is a way _out_. An end. And you're giving him a way to make it stop."

"And what do you want me to give him instead? Because I don't have a whole lot of options here."

Hannibal could feel something inside of him - some base part of who and what he was - ripping at the seams. Was this really what his men had come to? Where he had led them? Out of hell and into hopelessness or insanity? He could barely stomach that thought. It was up to him to figure out how they were going to get out of this. Not just the present situation, but the entire goddamned mess he'd created. He owed it to them to do something, to live up to the promise he had made them a lifetime ago. "No one gets left behind." It was a promise he had broken.

With every ounce of energy and will he had, Hannibal slammed the door down on the part of his mind that wanted to weep for his men. He couldn't do this to them, here or now. And he couldn't handle those thoughts. He locked it away. Suck up the pain and soldier on. He could deal with his own feeling later.

He took a step closer to Talent and lowered his voice. "You were there, Red," he said quietly. "You know what it was like. Both of them spent six weeks in a goddamned death camp. And as repayment for the duty they did and the scars they carry around, they were sold out by the same people they were serving. Neither of them - _none _of them - ever expected so much as a thank you or recognition for what they did. Just like you. And everything and everyone who should have paid them back with loyalty and respect turned away from them."

"You're not telling me anything I don't already know," Talent answered, his voice just as low. "And nothing I don't agree with a hundred percent. But what I don't know is what you want me to do about it. I can't fix this now. It's past that."

"If you really want to know what I would do, Talent, I'll tell you." Hannibal's eyes were cold and hard. "Take the money and walk away. You give me an hour with my men and I'll take care of them. You give your boss their blood money and try not to be too shocked when they double cross those POWs - _if _they even exist. Because this stinks of bureaucracy and bullshit and I wouldn't be at all surprised if you don't have the slightest _clue _what this is really about."

Talent was quiet for a long moment. Eyes locked on Hannibal, he nodded slowly, skeptically. "An hour. And then what? You gonna go over the fucking wall again?"

"Then we cease to be your problem."

Talent's jaw dropped at that. "Cease to...? How the _hell _am I supposed to write this up, huh?" He couldn't hold back the anger and frustration at this whole charade. "I got the confession, so now where's the criminals. Or maybe I didn't get a confession so where in the _hell _did all this money come from!"

Talent wanted a solution. But he was out of his depth here. And frankly, Hannibal had serious doubts about the legitimacy of the lines he'd been fed. The story had changed too quickly when he'd called their bluff - whoever "they" were. He didn't know what kind of game this was, but he doubted very much that it would end with thirteen POWs stepping off of a plane at LAX - regardless of how they did or didn't play along.

Talent took a moment to close his eyes, to think, to process. Then, slowly, he looked back at Hannibal again. "I will write up exactly what he told me. And I will open that hatch and give you until morning to do what you're going to do before I have to report your escape. When I do, you're on your own."

"Fine."

Talent sighed, took a step forward, and withdrew his hands from his pockets. Slow and serious, he offered a hand to the colonel. "It's out of my hands. But I wish you luck."

"Take care of yourself, Red." Hannibal shook his hand slowly. "And your team. Charlie isn't the only one who enjoys watching men bleed."

Talent studied him for a long moment, and nodded. "Just make sure you're out of here by morning," he said quietly. "Because I guarantee you that news of your escape will not be well received."

*X*X*X*

Face looked up as the metal door screeched open, and did a double take. His eyes were wide as the guard shoved Hannibal into the cell. BA was on his feet instantly. But he remained just as silent. None of them said a word until after the guards had left. And even then, the stillness lingered. Hands in the pockets of his fatigues, he just stood still, near the bars, and waited. And watched. His eyes drifted back and forth between Face and BA, but for several long, uncomfortable moments, he was silent.

Finally, he took a breath. "Who is going to start?"

Neither of them said a word. Both watched him silently. After a few more long, silent moments, Hannibal nodded slowly.

"Alright." His voice remained perfectly measured, perfectly calm. "I will begin."

He took a slow step forward, away from the bars, footsteps heavy on the cement floor as he stepped forward.

"I don't know what possessed you two to want to commit suicide in a North Vietnamese prison. But this I can tell you. If I ever hear anything like that from either one of you, ever again? I will shoot you myself. Is that clear?"

BA's eyes narrowed on him. "That supposed to scare us?"

"No." Hannibal looked at him steadily. "It is not a threat. It is a promise." Hannibal was just barely hanging on to his calm. And as he continued, it slipped through his fingers like sand. "Because I will not go through the rest of my life knowing that my men, in some stupid act of pseudo-heroism died in a pool of blood on some shitty bamboo floor!"

He was yelling by the time he finished. Yelling in a way that he had never yelled at his men before. "Is that _fucking_ understood, Sergeant!"

BA sneered at him. "Go ahead and make your promises. They don't mean jack. You wanna put me down like a dog, Hannibal, you go ahead. Maybe it be easier for you than havin' to deal with us."

"If I wanted easy, I would've left your asses right where you were." His voice was still loud. "You two could've killed people for money and prostituted yourself - respectively - from now 'til kingdom come! And you're more than welcome to go back to that if you so choose. While you are here, you are under my command, and if you want to commit suicide, you'd better damn well have a better way of doing it than at the hands of my enemy!"

"You ain't commanding us," BA yelled back. "We followin' you. 'Cause it's all we good at 'sides sellin' ourselves."

"Then that's your choice."

BA growled, lowering his voice and dropping his head like a dog ready to attack. "And if you ever bring up that shit we did to survive while you went off for your bullshit reasons, I'll kill you with my own two hands."

"You want to kill me?" Hannibal put out his hands to either side. "Here I am. Take your best shot."

Something came over BA's eyes. It was instant and dark and inhuman. Without a word, he drove his fist hard into Hannibal's stomach, then grabbed him by the waistband of his fatigues. Planting his feet, BA lifted him up of the ground, managing to lift him several inches before he jerked, pitching him backwards to the floor.

Hannibal made a quick, pained growl as he landed on the floor. Arms shackled, he couldn't reach down to him. Instead, he lifted one booted foot up high. He'd nearly brought it down on Hannibal's chest when suddenly he was off balance. Face was holding him, both hands on his chest, pushing him back against the wall.

"Stop!" The voice, quick and clipped and full of authority, sounded foreign to his ears. "BA, stop, you're going to crush his ribs. Stop! Just stop."

BA stared at Face for a long moment with no recognition. Then, suddenly, the killing rage was gone. BA looked at Hannibal then back to Face. There was nothing in his eyes anymore. BA had gone from killing with his bare hands to distant and empty in just under three seconds. There was no bottom to the eyes as he looked at Face for a long moment. "I ain't safe no more," he said flatly.

Face nodded, hands still on his chest, still holding him back against the wall. "I know. It's okay."

BA's big hand went to Face's forearm, wrapping around and squeezing for a second. Not to hurt, but just to hold on to something - someone who understood, who he could trust. Someone who _knew_. His shoulders sagged and he tilted his head back against the cell wall. Face watched him take a second to regroup, then, finally, he reached down a hand to Hannibal, who was still on the floor. Hannibal hesitated, staring at it for a few long moments. Then, finally, he reached up and let Face pull him to his feet.

Hannibal looked from Face to BA and back again. Then he took a breath. "We need to get out of here. We only have a few hours before the shit is going to hit the fan. I want to be long gone by then."

BA didn't open his eyes. Instead, he just nodded slowly and took several slow, deep breaths. As he finally pushed off the wall and looked at Hannibal, for a second, Hannibal caught a glimpse of the young kid he'd met years ago. Of course, he wasn't much more than a kid now. He wasn't even twenty-five yet. War made every child so much older...

As he watched silently, that flicker of a person slowly receded, hidden behind the cold thin BA had become. Hannibal watched it go, and let it go. There would be time later to bring it out into the light. That time was not now.

"What's the plan, Hannibal?"


	24. Chapter Twenty Three

**CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE**

They'd been under minimum security. They didn't have much more to offer at this base. Hannibal had learned on his way in that Lynch was on his way. They would be long gone by the time he arrived. Once again, they were together and they were underestimated.

Hannibal had a paperclip. Face didn't bother to ask how he'd gotten it through processing. Unlatching BA's shackles only took a few minutes. Then came the much harder problem of how to get out of the cell, past the guards, and off the base.

"BA, move that."

Hannibal was pointing to the lumpy mattress on the metal cot. His anger seemed to have been left on the floor of the cell, dropped with no memory of ever having felt it. He had a job to do and that was as far as his thoughts seemed to go.

As BA tossed the mattress aside, Face stared at the metal skeleton of the standard, old, and very well-worn Army cot. "Anything you can use there to get the cell door open?"

Hannibal was looking at Face now. And it was only partly a question. More than that, it was an order. Face licked his lips to bring moisture back to his mouth as he considered the options. Was he really doing this? Again? Breaking out of a military prison? Why? He hadn't been planning on ever coming out of here...

Pushing those thoughts aside, he pointed to a long thin metal slat and looked up at BA. "Think you can get this off for me?"

BA didn't answer. Not with words. He just nodded, reached down, and snapped the piece off with his massive hands. Their eyes met briefly as he handed it over. Hard to read. BA hadn't expected to be escaping either. But following Hannibal was somehow, inexplicably, as natural as breathing.

Hannibal was leaning against the cell door, arms crossed. "All clear," he said quietly as Face moved toward the lock on the door. His lock picking skills had not gotten a tremendous amount of use in the past sixteen months, and he felt the lack of practice as he struggled with the cell door. Long, tense moments passed, trying to be patient, trying to hurry up. Then, finally, it clicked.

Face smiled as he pulled it aside just enough to keep it from latching again. It would make a loud screech when they pulled it all the way. That would certainly attract the guards. As he haphazardly tossed the makeshift lock pick on the mattress, he raised a brow at Hannibal.

"Now what?"

"Mattress back in place," Hannibal ordered. "Make sure that door looks as close to being shut as you can get it."

Face and BA complied immediately. When Face looked back at Hannibal, he seemed almost to have a gleam in his eye. "Do you remember Fort Bragg?"

"Hard to forget."

"I'm thinking the same thing, but with a little more flare."

Face just looked at him for a second. "Flare? Are you serious?"

"Look on the bright side, Lieutenant. The weather is perfect."

"We got one guard at the south end of the hall," BA said flatly, "and one at the north end. They walk past every three minutes."

Hannibal picked up. "Right and there are two more stationed inside the door of the stockade. All we need to do is make sure they are occupied and then borrow their clothes."

"That's all?" Face asked, his voice dripping sarcasm.

"It'll be a piece of cake."

BA looked at Face, but didn't say a word. Piece of cake. Great.

Hannibal pointed to Face. You take the north, I'll get the south. BA you're with me and we'll also handle the two at the door. All of them are to be brought back to the cell. Clear?"

Face nodded. It was a simple plan and this wasn't their first time.

They waited in silence until the guard next passed. They had three minutes to get in place. It took less than 45 seconds. With no noise, Face waited, crouching by the opening to the hallway, hiding in as much shadow as he could. As soon as the MP passed, he slipped a chokehold around him. A few seconds later, he was dragging the unconscious guard to the cell. Hannibal and BA were leaving for the next two.

They were already dressed in fatigues - but the ones the MPs wore had the patches they needd. They switched shirts, grabbed weapons, and were all three dressed, armed, and ready to move in two minutes flat.

"Never thought I'd see the day where I was counting that escape from Fort Bragg as a _practice_ run," Face said under his breath.

"There's an opportunity to learn in every aspect of life." Hannibal slung the guard's rifle over his back and handed BA his weapon. "Ready for the perp walk?"

Face nodded. Every muscle in his body was tense. It was amazing how instantly his posture and gait went right back to military form. Sixteen months of Las Vegas was gone the second he buttoned up that uniform. Falling into cadence, the three of them walked right out the door of the stockade, using the guard's keys to open the door. They were outside and blinking in the dim moonlight before Face had time to think about what they where doing.

Not thinking was a good thing. Thinking would only give him time to consider the absurdity of following Hannibal as he moved with confidence and purpose right to the CO's office.

"Are you _nuts_?"

"I told you, Face. This time with style."

He was pointing to the shiny four door army sedan in the parking space right by the door. Face just shook his head as BA moved to the driver's side door. It was open. Of course it was. Who in their right mind would steal this car?

BA dropped his head under the dash and popped up fifteen seconds later as the engine purred to line. With Hannibal in the back, BA driving, and Face riding shotgun they made their way to the guard gate following all the traffic rules to the letter. As they approached the gate, the guard saw the car and waved them through without a word. With a grin, Hannibal gave the guard a salute and they were free.

They didn't stop until they were miles away. As BA finally put the car in park, in the lot of a gas station, Face sat for a long moment just blinking as he stared out the windshield, blindly into space. "Did we really just do that?" he asked, stunned.

Hannibal just nodded and grinned. "You mean _again_? Yeah. We did." He leaded forward over the seat. "Face, see if you can round up some clothes for us that don't stick out as much. But more importantly, we need a less noticeable ride. Or, at least, different plates. I'm going to get us some food and some cigars. Looks like the sergeant who lent me his clothes and wallet had over a hundred bucks on him. Remind me to send him a thank you card."

They had all removed the jackets. BA had removed his shirt too. He stood out, but without the hat and top, he didn't look military, that was for damn sure. Hannibal put the guns under the jackets on the floor of the back seat and opened his door.

"Meet back here in fifteen minutes," he ordered. "I want to be two states over by the time they know we're gone."

With that, he was gone. And Face and BA were once again following his orders.

*X*X*X*

Talent still wasn't entirely sure what he was going to say as he paused outside the office of a man he knew only as Red Fox. He'd never gotten a full name from him, and he'd never much cared. It seemed a small thing now that they had been working so long "off the record" - even before they'd met him.

The "office" was little more than a hole in the wall that he had rented for the month to be close to where the action was. It was something he'd never done before; normally he preferred to stay somewhere in Virginia where he was damn near impossible to reach. The fact that he'd come out here at all had, in fact, raised the question of whether this was something personal to him. He wanted to be involved, kept in the loop. Normally, he didn't want to know how things got done, only that they were done.

Voices inside the room made Talent pause at the door. He was tense and on edge about this meeting. Red Fox always seemed to know more than he was supposed to. And Talent wasn't sure how closely he kept in contact with the military, if at all. If he knew of the escape already, it would make this conversation a lot like walking on broken glass.

There were two voices, separate and distinguishable, but not identifiable. One of them, he had to guess, was his employer. The other, he wasn't certain. Carefully, silent, he leaned forward to see if he could hear what was being said.

"What good is the money to us if not accompanied by the men?" The voice had an accent. British, maybe, but light and easy to understand. Talent suddenly wished he was better able to identify it.

"There's nothing we can do about that. The men are gone." That had to be Red Fox. Talent dropped his head and closed his eyes, listening hard to pick up every word.

"He had all three of them in the palm of his hand. I don't understand what went wrong."

"If I had to guess, I would say he talked too much to Smith. I warned you about prolonged contact between those two."

"What is the point of having a man so highly skilled if you have to micromanage his every move? Talent was moving along quite well and had we interrupted his plans, he would have become suspicious."

"Well, he's certainly suspicious now. And I wouldn't be terribly surprised to find that he somehow aided in the escape."

A long pause. Talent clenched his fists, realizing his hands were shaking slightly.

"You think he would do that?"

"I think he's talked to Smith. And I think that makes him compromised."

"So what do we do with him?"

"Cut him loose. Burn him. It makes no difference to us either way."

"Why do you say that?"

"I received this from Washington about an hour ago."

Talent had no way to see what was passed between the two men. But from the long pause, he guessed a paper that the Brit was reading. "China?" he finally asked. "Are they serious?"

"Our operation has been temporarily suspended pending additional approval from the president _and _additional funding. The well has run dry, so to speak. You and I have been called back into the service of the CIA."

"That's very... abrupt."

"Indeed. Make sure that Captain Sullivan is properly disposed of. I'll get rid of Talent's team. Neither are of any further use to us."

"And Smith?"  
"Smith will have to wait. I'm quite sure I'll be able to find him when we're ready."

Talent stepped back slowly, eyes still on the closed door as his mind raced. There was nothing definitive in any of those words to make him think that his men's lives were in danger. And indeed, they were well enough able to defend themselves. But Red Fox was smart, and there were far better ways to dispose of them than killing them. A military court, for instance. A life sentence at Leavenworth.

There was no time to think. He had to react. Turning from the door, he walked quickly down the hall and out into the morning sunlight. He needed to get his men. Then they needed to get the hell out of there. He would determine later where they were going, and what they would do when they got there. And he'd take a lesson from Smith and keep them together. But one thing was for damn sure. They weren't any safer here than Hannibal and his team. And hopefully Hannibal was long gone.


	25. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

The little hotel was nothing special. The one thing it did have that was worth noting was a tiny little balcony on each dimly lit, water-stained room. That was where Hannibal found Face, leaned forward on the railing and looking out over the parking lot and the car that he had procured from god-knows-where.

"Talk to Elaine?" he asked quietly, flatly.

Hannibal smiled. Of course he would know that Hannibal would've called her by now. "I did."

"And?"

Hannibal paused for a long moment. "For her own peace of mind, she knows that there was a murder. As far as what she'll be able to prove..."

Face nodded, but didn't speak. Hannibal hesitated as long as he could before finally opening his mouth again to speak. When he did, it still took him a few tries to make sound come out. "Why don't you come inside. I'd like to have a talk and this balcony is too small for the three of us."

Face glanced at him briefly, finished his cigarette, and flicked it towards the parking lot before he turned and headed back inside. BA was waiting, leaning on the wall with arms crossed. As Hannibal shut the balcony door behind him, he took a deep breath.

"I was wrong." He paused for a moment, but suddenly, the words came much easier. He continued with the ease of a politician giving a speech. "I've never had a problem saying that before. I've made mistakes, and my mistakes inevitably affect the lives of every man under my command in one way or another. I've made mistakes that have cost men their lives. Their sanity. Their freedom. And I have absolutely nothing to offer as repayment. But right up there at the top of the list of the biggest mistakes I've made was the decision to split us up. And I regret that decision. I can't undo it, but I can change it from here on out."

The two faces that stared back at him were expressionless. Neither man moved, or spoke, or offered any reaction whatsoever. Hannibal gave them a moment, but when it was clear that they had nothing to say, he continued.

"Elaine Westman was willing to pay us a large sum of money to help here. We have a very unique set of circumstances, and a unique set of skills. I have to think that our skills - when _combined _- put us in a situation to help more people than just Elaine."

"Except we didn't help Elaine," Face reminded him. "Westman _was _murdered. And she can't prove it."

"And I can't guarantee that we'll be able to help anyone else. I can't guarantee that anyone will pay us, or if they do that it will be enough to survive on. I can't guarantee that we will accomplish anything at all. But I want to try. I want to have a purpose, a reason for living again. And if that purpose is to work towards a goal that I can never attain, then so be it."

Vacant eyes stared back at him. After a long pause, he took a deep breath, and let it out slow, putting his shoulders back.

"I'm going to Los Angeles," he declared, with more determination than he had felt in a long time. "I'm going to see Murdock. And I'm going to start a new life. I ask you - not as your commanding officer, but as your friend - to come with me. Because I do believe that there is something more than this. And even if I am wrong, what do any of us have to lose?"

He was done. He had nothing more to say. He stood waiting for their verdict. Face watched him quietly, and finally lowered his head without speaking. BA glanced at him, then back at Hannibal, his expression unchanging. "When do we leave?"

"Tomorrow," Hannibal answered quietly. "We leave first thing tomorrow."


End file.
